VENICE 


VENICE 

As  Seen  and  Described 
by  Famous  Writers 


Edited  and  Translated  by 

ESTHER    SINGLETON 

Author  of  "Turrets,  Towers  and  Temples," 

"Great  Pictures,"  and  "A  Guide  to  the 

Opera,"  and  translator  of  "The  Music 

Dramas  of  Richard  Wagner" 

WITH     NUMEROUS     ILLUSTRATIONS 


Dodd,  Mead  and  Company 

1911 


Copyright,  1905, 

BY 

DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 
Published  March 


511  fJ  7 


STACK 
ANNEX 

D6 


PREFACE 

This  book  consists  of  a  collection  of  impressions,  essays  and 
criticisms  by  sympathetic  travellers,  historians  and  artists, 
gathered  together  to  give  a  general  impression  of  the  half- 
submerged  "  Queen  of  the  Adriatic."  We  are  prepared  for 
the  peculiar  charm  of  the  fantastic  floating  city  of  dreams  by 
Dickens's  prose-poem  which  shows  the  spirit  with  which 
Venice  should  be  visited  and  studied  ;  for  the  Venice  of  to-day, 
with  her  fallen  Campanile,  her  filled-up  canals,  and  her 
modern  life  is  entirely  ignored  in  these  pages,  where  only  the 
picturesque  and  individual  phases  of  the  city  are  presented. 

The  historical  articles  by  Grant  Allen  on  the  Origins  of 
Venice  and  by  Ruskin  on  Torcello,  which  open  and  close  the 
book,  emphasize  the  antiquity  of  the  "  City  of  the  Lagoons  " 
and  her  simple  beginnings.  The  growth  of  the  Republic  is 
clearly  set  forth  by  Green,  and  her  power  and  magnificence 
are  described  in  the  course  of  various  essays,  notably  those  on 
The  Doge  and  The  Arsenal.  The  first  two  historical 
articles  prepare  us  for  our  trip  through  Venice,  before  taking 
which,  Ruskin  gives  a  general  view  of  the  ocean-city,  "  set 
like  a  golden  clasp  on  the  girdle  of  the  earth,"  reflecting  its 
marble  palaces  upon  that  "  green  pavement  "  which  every 
breeze  breaks  "  into  new  fantasies  of  rich  tesselation,"  or 
standing  at  ebb-tide  upon  its  flat  plain  of  dark  green  seaweed. 


vi  PREFACE 

As  in  my  similar  books  on  London  and  Paris,  I  have  fol- 
lowed a  general  plan  of  topographical  arrangement.  There- 
fore, we  begin  with  a  general  view  of  the  Lagoons  and  the 
"  Outer  Rim  "  from  which  we  catch  a  distant  glimpse  of 
Venice.  We  then  enter  a  gondola  and  float  along  the  Grand 
Canal  with  Gautier  to  point  out  its  array  of  palaces  and 
monuments  of  fame,  beauty  and  historical  interest,  pausing  to 
learn  from  Molmenti  of  the  luxurious  interiors  of  the  Patri- 
cian's Palaces  in  their  prime.  Santa  Maria  della  Salute,  The 
Rialto,  the  Ca'  d'Oro  and  the  Fondachi  claim  our  attention 
until  we  land  and  ascend  the  Campanile,  with  Henry  Havard 
to  aid  us  in  recognising  the  chief  buildings  at  our  feet  and 
the  misty  blue  mountain  peaks  in  the  far  distance.  After  this 
bird's-eye  view  of  luminous  Venice,  framed  by  her  lagoons, 
we  enter  St.  Mark's  to  study  its  architecture,  sculptures  and 
mosaics,  and  next  stop  to  enjoy  the  Piazza  and  learn  the  sig- 
nificance of  its  famous  columns.  The  Ducal  Palace  then 
claims  our  interest,  without  and  within.  Our  travels  through 
the  city  are  now  interrupted  by  the  examination  of  some  mas- 
terpieces of  Venetian  painting,  described  by  Taine;  after 
which,  we  again  enter  our  gondola  to  visit  some  of  the 
churches  of  especial  note,  wells  and  squares,  and  side-canals, 
which  happily  for  us  are  not  yet  filled  up.  We  enjoy  a  few 
afternoon  excursions  to  islands  from  Chioggia  on  the  south  to 
Torcello  on  the  north, — and  thus  our  visit  ends. 

In  the  meantime,  we  have  noted  some  of  the  industries  of 
old  Venice,  and  some  of  her  ancient  customs;  such  as  the 
coronation  of  the  Doge,  and  his  wedding  of  the  Adriatic  in 


PREFACE  vii 

the  Bucentaur.  We  have  learned  about  the  Gondoliers  and 
their  Traghetti,  and  enjoyed  the  gay  life  of  the  Piazza  and 
Riva  de'  Schiavoni,  and  individual  types  of  Venetians  upon 
the  Rialto  and  at  Chioggia.  We  have  seen  the  "  Queen  of 
the  Adriatic  "  under  some  of  her  most  peculiar  as  well  as 
enchanting  aspects;  for  instance,  during  her  season  of  Carni- 
val and  festival  of  All  Souls'  Day;  we  have  seen  her  during 
spring,  summer,  autumn  and  winter;  in  all  the  loveliness  of 
dawn,  sunset  and  night;  when  the  fierce  sirocco  is  approach- 
ing, and  when  floods  inundate  the  city. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  such  a  rapid  tour  cannot  be 
complete;  therefore,  all  that  I  have  endeavored  to  do  within 
the  limited  space  at  my  disposal,  has  been  to  preserve  the 
impressions  and  present  the  descriptions  that  the  traveller 
best  cares  to  retain.  E.  S. 

NEW  YORK,  February,  1905. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

An  Italian  Dream  1 

Charles  Dickens 

Origin  of  Venice 13 

Grant  Allen 

Venice  and  Rome 25 

John  Richard  Green 

The  City  of  the  Lagoons 34 

John  Ruskin 


The  Lagoons'    . 

45 

The  Gondola    . 

Horatio  F.  Broivn 
Theophile  Gautier 

.      52 

55 

The  Traghetti 
The  Grand  Canal 

William  Sharp 
Horatio  F.  Bro<wn 

.      64 

74 

The  Patricians'  Palaces 

Thiophile  Gautier 

.       85 

Santa  Maria  della  Salute 

P.  Molmenti 

91 

The  Rialto 

John  Ruskin 

94 

Charles  Yriarte 
TheCa'd'Oro 99 

Max  Doumic 

The  Fondaco  dei  Turchi  and  The  Fondaco  dei  Tedeschi      .     .     104 
Charles   Yriarte 

View  from  the  Campanile 113 

Henry  Harvard 
ix 


x  CONTENTS 

PACK 

St.  Mark's 119 

John  Ruskin 
The  Sculptures  on  the  Facade  of  St.  Mark's    .         .         .        .131 

Jean  Paul  Richter 
The  Mosaics  of  Venice     .  ....  .'144 

William  B.  Scott 

The  Piazza ....     151 

Henry  Perl 

The  Doves  of  St.  Mark's 163 

Horatio  F.  Brown 

The  Columns  of  the  Piazzetta 16? 

John  Ruskin 

The  Ducal  Palace 178 

John  Ruskin 

Interior  of  the  Ducal  Palace 192 

Th/ophile  Gautier 

The  Carnival 202 

Charles  Yriarte 

Riva  degli  Schiavoni  .  .  ...     206 

Julia  Cartwright 

By  Side  Canals 211 

Linda  Villari 

Some  Churches  of  Venice 217 

Henry  Perl 

All  Souls'  Day 224 

Hcratio  F.  Brown 

Canals,  Wells  and  Squares 229 

Julia  Cartwright 

Summer  in  Venice 235 

Linda  Villari 

Night  in  Venice 243 

John  Aldington  Symonds 

The  Arsenal .     246 

Charles  Yriarte 

The  Doge 255 

William  Carenu  Hazlitt 


CONTENTS  xi 

PAGE 

Tombs  of  the  Doges 262 

Hippolyte  Adolphe  Taine 

Wealth  and  Industries  of  Old  Venice 272 

William  B.  Scott 

The  Brides  of  Venice 278 

John  Ruskin 

Seasons  in  Venice 287 

Julia  Cart-wright 

Venetian  Painting       ....  ....     292 

Hippolyte  Adolphe  Taine 

Venice  and  Tintoretto 305 

John  Richard  Green 

Floods  in  the  City 314 

Horatio  F.  Brown 

Venetian  Melancholy 3l9 

John  Addington  Symonds 
Afternoon    Excursions    (San    Lazzaro,    Malamocco  —  Fusina  — 

The  Lido) 33° 

John  Addington  Symonds 

Chioggia •        •        ...     338 

Henry  Ecroyd 

Murano 343 

John  Ruskin 

St.  Francis  in  the  Desert 356 

Linda   Villari 


Torcello 


362 


John  Ruskin 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


View  of  Venice Frontispiece 

Bridge    of    Sighs Facing  Page  8 

Palazzo  Dario "  "  14 

Torcello "  "  26 

View  of  Venice "  34 

Grand    Canal "  "  52 

Canal  in  Torcello "  56 

Grand  Canal  from  the  Salute        ...  "  "  74 

Palazzo    Loredan "'.'.."  86 

Santa  Maria  della  Salute        ....  "  "  92 

The  Rialto "  94 

The  Ca'  D'Oro «  «  100 

The  Fondaco  dei  Turchi        ....  "  "  104 

View  from  the  Campanile      ....  "  "  114 

St.   Mark's "  "  120 

Southern  Fagade  of  St.  Mark's    ...  "  "  132 

Interior  of  St.  Mark's "  "  144 

The  Doves  of  St.  Mark's        ....  "  "  164 

The  Columns  of  the  Piazzetta        ...  "  "  168 

The    Ducal    Palace 178 

The    Ducal    Palace "  "  192 

Piazzetta  with  Corner  of  Doge's  Palace       .  "  "  202 

Riva  degli  Schiavoni "  206 

Sanudo    Vanaxel    Canal          ....  "  "  212 

Church  of  S.  Zaccaria                                       .  "  "  218 

Church  of  II  Santissimo  Redentore        .        •  "  **  224 

S.  Maria  della  Misericorda:  Dock                ,  «  «  2^Q 
xiii 


X1V  ILLUSTRATIONS 

The   Lido   Baths Facing  Page  236 

Island  of  S.  Giorgio  Maggiore       ...  "  "  244 

The  Arsenal "  "  246 

Palazzo   Venezia-Murano        ....  "  "  256 

Statue  of  Colleoni "  "  262 

Bronze   Horses  of   St.    Mark's        ,  "  "  272 
Grand    Canal    Showing    Vendramini:    Ca- 

lergi  Palace "  "  278 

Rio   Albrizzi "  "  288 

Bacchus  and  Ariadne "  "  292 

Rape   of   Europa "  "  302 

Palazzo    Giustiniani    Vescovi          ...  "  "  306 

Lido:     View  of  S.  Maria  Elisabetta         .  "  "  330 

Fish  Market  in  Venice "  "  338 

San   Donato,   Italy     ......  "  "  344 

Santa  Fosca,  Torcello "  "  356 

Interior  of  Santa  Fosca,  Torcello    ...  *  **  362 


AN  ITALIAN  DREAM 

CHARLES  DICKENS 

I  HAD  been  travelling  for  some  days ;  resting  very  little 
in  the  night,  and  never  in  the  day.  The  rapid  and 
unbroken  succession  of  novelties  that  had  passed  before 
me  came  back  like  half-formed  dreams;  and  a  crowd  of 
objects  wandered  in  the  greatest  confusion  through  my  mind, 
as  I  travelled  on  by  a  solitary  road.  At  intervals,  some  one 
among  them  would  stop,  as  it  were,  in  its  restless  flitting  to 
and  fro,  and  enable  me  to  look  at  it  quite  steadily,  and  behold 
it  in  full  distinctness.  After  a  few  moments  it  would  dis- 
solve, like  a  view  in  a  magic  lantern ;  and  while  I  saw  some 
part  of  it  quite  plainly,  and  some  faintly,  and  some  not  at  all, 
would  show  me  another  of  the  many  places  I  had  lately  seen, 
lingering  behind  it,  and  coming  through  it.  This  was  no 
sooner  visible  than,  in  its  turn,  it  melted  into  something  else. 
At  one  moment  I  was  standing  again  before  the  brown  old 
rugged  churches  of  Modena.  As  I  recognised  the  curious 
pillars  with  grim  monsters  for  their  bases,  I  seemed  to  see 
them,  standing  by  themselves,  in  the  quiet  square  at  Padua, 
where  there  were  the  staid  old  University,  and  the  figures 
demurely  gowned,  grouped  here  and  there  in  the  open  space 
about  it.  Then,  I  was  strolling  in  the  outskirts  of  that 
pleasant  city,  admiring  the  unusual  neatness  of  the  dwelling- 
houses,  gardens,  and  orchards,  as  I  had  seen  them  a  few  hours 


2  VENICE 

before.  In  their  stead  arose,  immediately,  the  two  towers  of 
Bologna;  and  the  most  obstinate  of  all  these  objects  failed  to 
hold  its  ground  a  minute,  before  the  monstrous  moated  castle 
of  Ferrara,  which,  like  an  illustration  to  a  wild  romance, 
came  back  again  in  the  red  sunrise,  lording  it  over  the  solitary, 
grass-grown,  withered  town.  In  short,  I  had  that  incoher- 
ent, but  delightful  jumble  in  my  brain,  which  travellers  are 
apt  to  have,  and  are  indolently  willing  to  encourage.  Every 
shake  of  the  coach  in  which  I  sat,  half  dozing,  in  the  dark, 
appeared  to  jerk  some  new  recollection  out  of  its  place,  and 
to  jerk  some  other  new  recollection  into  it;  and  in  this  state 
I  fell  asleep. 

I  was  awakened  after  sometime  (as  I  thought)  by  the 
stopping  of  the  coach.  It  was  now  quite  night,  and  we  were 
at  the  waterside.  There  lay  here  a  black  boat,  with  a  little 
house  or  cabin  in  it  of  the  same  mournful  colour.  When  I 
had  taken  my  seat  in  this,  the  boat  was  paddled,  by  two  men, 
toward  a  great  light  lying  in  the  distance  on  the  sea. 

Ever  and  again  there  was  a  dismal  sigh  of  wind.  It 
ruffled  the  water,  and  rocked  the  boat,  and  sent  the  dark 
clouds  flying  before  the  stars.  I  could  not  but  think  how 
strange  it  was  to  be  floating  away  at  that  hour:  leaving  the 
land  behind,  and  going  toward  this  light  upon  the  sea. 
It  soon  began  to  burn  brighter;  and,  from  being  one  light, 
became  a  cluster  of  tapers,  twinkling  and  shining  out  of  the 
water,  as  the  boat  approached  toward  them  by  a  dreamy  kind 
of  track,  marked  out  upon  the  sea  by  posts  and  piles. 

We  had  floated  on,  five  miles  or  so,  over  the  dark  water, 


AN  ITALIAN  DREAM  3 

when  I  heard  it  rippling,  in  my  dream,  against  some  obstruc- 
tion near  at  hand.  Looking  out  attentively,  I  saw,  through 
the  gloom,  a  something  black  and  massive — like  a  shore,  but 
lying  close  and  flat  upon  the  water,  like  a  raft — which  we 
were  gliding  past.  The  chief  of  the  two  rowers  said  it  was 
a  burial-place. 

Full  of  the  interest  and  wonder  which  a  cemetery  lying 
out  there,  in  the  lonely  sea,  inspired,  I  turned  to  gaze  upon  it 
as  it  should  recede  in  our  path,  when  it  was  quickly  shut  out 
from  my  view.  Before  I  knew  by  what,  or  how,  I  found 
that  we  were  gliding  up  a  street — a  phantom  street;  the 
houses  rising  on  both  sides  from  the  water,  and  the  black  boat 
gliding  on  beneath  their  windows.  Lights  were  shining 
from  some  of  these  casements,  plumbing  the  depth  of  the  black 
stream  with  their  reflected  rays;  but  all  was  profoundly 
silent. 

So  we  advanced  into  this  ghostly  city,  continuing  to  hold 
our  course  through  narrow  streets  and  lanes,  all  rilled  and 
flowing  with  water.  Some  of  the  corners  where  our  way 
branched  off  were  so  acute  and  narrow,  that  it  seemed  im- 
possible for  the  long,  slender  boat  to  turn  them;  but  the 
rowers,  with  a  low,  melodious  cry  of  warning,  sent  it  skim- 
ming on  without  a  pause.  Sometimes  the  rowers  of  another 
black  boat  like  our  own  echoed  the  cry,  and,  slackening  their 
speed  (as  I  thought  we  did  ours),  would  come  flitting  past 
us,  like  a  dark  shadow.  Other  boats,  of  the  same  sombre 
hue,  were  lying  moored,  I  thought,  to  painted  pillars,  near  to 
dark,  mysterious  doors  that  opened  straight  upon  the  water. 


4  VENICE 

Some  of  these  were  empty ;  in  some  the  rowers  lay  asleep ; 
toward  one  I  saw  some  figures  coming  down  a  gloomy  arch- 
way from  the  interior  of  a  palace:  gaily  dressed,  and  at- 
tended by  torch-bearers.  It  was  but  a  glimpse  I  had  of 
them;  for  a  bridge  so  low  and  close  upon  the  boat  that  it 
seemed  ready  to  fall  down  and  crush  us:  one  of  the  many 
bridges  that  perplexed  the  Dream:  blotted  them  out  in- 
stantly. On  we  went,  floating  toward  the  heart  of  this 
strange  place — with  water  all  about  us  where  never  water 
was  elsewhere — clusters  of  houses,  churches,  heaps  of  stately 
buildings  growing  out  of  it — and,  everywhere,  the  same  ex- 
traordinary silence.  Presently,  we  shot  across  a  broad  and  open 
stream;  and  passing,  as  I  thought,  before  a  spacious  paved 
quay  where  the  bright  lamps  with  which  it  was  illuminated 
showed  long  rows  of  arches  and  pillars,  of  ponderous  con- 
struction and  great  strength,  but  as  light  to  the  eye  as  gar- 
lands of  hoar  frost  or  gossamer — and  where,  for  the  first 
time,  I  saw  people  walking — arrived  at  a  flight  of  steps 
leading  from  the  water  to  a  large  mansion,  where,  having 
passed  through  corridors  and  galleries  innumerable,  I  lay 
down  to  rest;  listening  to  the  black  boats  stealing  up  and 
down  below  the  window  on  the  rippling  water  till  I  fell 
asleep. 

The  glory  of  the  day  that  broke  upon  me  in  this  Dream; 
its  freshness,  motion,  buoyancy;  its  sparkles  of  the  sun  in 
water;  its  clear  blue  sky  and  rustling  air;  no  waking  words 
can  tell.  But,  from  my  window,  I  looked  down  on  boats 
and  barques ;  on  masts,  sails,  cordage,  flags ;  on  groups  of  busy 


AN  ITALIAN  DREAM  5 

sailors  working  at  the  cargoes  of  these  vessels ;  on  wide  quays 
strewn  with  bales,  casks,  merchandise  of  many  kinds;  on 
great  ships  lying  near  at  hand  in  stately  indolence ;  on  islands 
crowned  with  gorgeous  domes  and  turrets ;  and  where  golden 
crosses  glittered  in  the  light,  atop  of  wondrous  churches 
springing  from  the  sea!  Going  down  upon  the  margin  of 
the  green  sea,  rolling  on  before  the  door,  and  filling  all  the 
streets,  I  came  upon  a  place  of  such  surpassing  beauty,  and 
such  grandeur,  that  all  the  rest  was  poor  and  faded,  in  com- 
parison with  its  absorbing  loveliness. 

It  was  a  great  Piazza,  as  I  thought ;  anchored,  like  all  the 
rest,  in  the  deep  ocean.  On  its  broad  bosom  was  a  Palace, 
more  majestic  and  magnificent  in  its  old  age  than  all  the 
buildings  of  the  earth,  in  the  high  prime  and  fulness  of  their 
youth.  Cloisters  and  galleries:  so  light,  they  might  have 
been  the  work  of  fairy  hands;  so  strong,  that  centuries  had 
battered  them  in  vain;  wound  round  and  round  this  palace, 
and  enfolded  it  with  a  Cathedral,  gorgeous  in  the  wild 
luxuriant  fancies  of  the  East.  At  no  great  distance  from  its 
porch,  a  lofty  tower  standing  by  itself,  and  rearing  its  proud 
head,  alone,  into  the  sky,  looked  out  upon  the  Adriatic  Sea. 
Near  to  the  margin  of  the  stream  were  two  ill-omened  pillars 
of  red  granite;  one  having  on  its  top  a  figure  with  a  sword 
and  shield ;  the  other,  a  winged  lion.  Not  far  from  these, 
again,  a  second  tower:  richest  of  the  rich  in  all  its  decora- 
tions: even  here,  where  all  was  rich:  sustained  aloft  a  great 
orb,  gleaming  with  gold  and  deepest  blue:  the  Twelve  Signs 
painted  on  it,  and  a  mimic  sun  revolving  in  its  course  around 


6  VENICE 

them:  while  above,  two  bronze  giants  hammered  out  the 
hours  upon  a  sounding  bell.  An  oblong  square  of  lofty 
houses  of  the  whitest  stone,  surrounded  by  a  light  and  beauti- 
ful arcade,  formed  part  of  this  enchanted  scene:  and,  here, 
and  there,  gay  masts  for  flags  rose,  tapering  from  the  pave- 
ment of  the  unsubstantial  ground. 

I  thought  I  entered  the  Cathedral,  and  went  in  and  out 
among  its  many  arches;  traversing  its  whole  extent.  A  grand 
and  dreamy  structure,  of  immense  proportions;  golden  with 
old  mosaics;  redolent  of  perfumes;  dim  with  the  smoke  of 
incense;  costly  in  treasure  of  precious  stones  and  metals, 
glittering  through  iron  bars ;  holy  with  the  bodies  of  deceased 
saints;  rainbow-hued  with  windows  of  stained  glass;  dark 
with  carved  woods  and  coloured  marbles ;  obscure  in  its  vast 
heights  and  lengthened  distance;  shining  with  silver  lamps 
and  winking  lights;  unreal,  fantastic,  solemn,  inconceivable 
throughout.  I  thought  I  entered  the  old  palace;  pacing 
silent  galleries  and  council-chambers,  where  the  old  rulers  of 
this  mistress  of  the  waters  looked  sternly  out,  in  pictures, 
from  the  walls,  and  where  her  high-prowed  galleys,  still 
victorious  on  canvas,  fought  and  conquered  as  of  old.  I 
thought  I  wandered  through  its  halls  of  state  and  triumph — 
bare  and  empty  now! — and  musing  on  its  pride  and  might, 
extinct:  for  that  was  past;  all  past;  heard  a  voice  say, 
"  Some  tokens  of  its  ancient  rule,  and  some  consoling  reasons 
for  its  downfall,  may  be  traced  here  yet !  " 

I  dreamed  that  I  was  led  on,  then,  into  some  jealous  rooms, 
communicating  with  a  prison  near  the  palace ;  separated  from 


AN  ITALIAN  DREAM  7 

it  by  a  lofty  bridge,  crossing  a  narrow  street;  and  called,  I 
dreamed,  The  Bridge  of  Sighs. 

But  first  I  passed  two  jagged  slits  in  a  stone  wall;  the 
lions'  mouths — now  toothless — where,  in  the  distempered 
horror  of  my  sleep,  I  thought  denunciations  of  innocent  men 
to  the  old  wicked  Council  had  been  dropped  through,  many  a 
time,  when  the  night  was  dark.  So,  when  I  saw  the  council- 
room  to  which  such  prisoners  were  taken  for  examination, 
and  the  door  by  which  they  passed  out  when  they  were  con- 
demned— a  door  that  never  closed  upon  a  man  with  life  and 
hope  before  him — my  heart  appeared  to  die  within  me. 

It  was  smitten  harder  though,  when,  torch  in  hand,  I 
descended  from  the  cheerful  day  into  two  ranges,  one  below 
another,  of  dismal,  awful,  horrible  stone  cells.  They  were 
quite  dark.  Each  had  a  loophole  in  its  massive  wall,  where, 
in  the  old  time,  every  day,  a  torch  was  placed — I  dreamed — 
to  light  the  prisoner  within  for  half  an  hour.  The  captives, 
by  the  glimmering  of  these  brief  rays  had  scratched  and  cut 
inscriptions  in  the  blackened  vaults.  I  saw  them.  For 
their  labour  with  a  rusty  nail's  point  had  outlived  their  agony 
and  them,  through  many  generations. 

One  cell  I  saw,  in  which  no  man  remained  for  more  than 
four-and-twenty  hours;  being  marked  for  dead  before  he 
entered  it.  Hard  by,  another,  and  a  dismal  one,  whereto,  at 
midnight,  the  confessor  came — a  monk  brown-robed,  and 
hooded — ghastly  in  the  day,  and  free  bright  air,  but,  in  the 
midnight  of  that  murky  prison,  Hope's  extinguisher,  and 
Murder's  herald.  I  had  my  foot  upon  the  spot  where,  at  the 


8  VENICE 

same  dread  hour,  the  shriven  prisoner  was  strangled ;  and 
struck  my  hand  upon  the  guilty  door — low-browed  and 
stealthy — through  which  the  lumpish  sack  was  carried  out 
into  a  boat,  and  rowed  away,  and  drowned  where  it  was 
death  to  cast  a  net. 

Around  this  dungeon  stronghold,  and  above  some  part  of 
it :  licking  the  rough  walls  without,  and  smearing  them  with 
damps  and  slime  within ;  stuffing  dank  weeds  and  refuse  into 
chinks  and  crevices,  as  if  the  very  stones  and  bars  had  mouths 
to  stop;  furnishing  a  smooth  road  for  the  removal  of  the 
bodies  of  the  secret  victims  of  the  state — a  road  so  ready  that 
it  went  along  with  them,  and  ran  before  them  like  a  cruel 
officer — flowed  the  same  water  that  filled  this  Dream  of  mine, 
and  made  it  seem  one,  even  at  the  time. 

Descending  from  the  palace  by  a  staircase,  called,  I 
thought,  the  Giant's — I  had  some  imaginary  recollection  of 
an  old  man  abdicating,  coming,  more  slowly  and  more  feebly, 
down  it,  when  he  heard  the  bell  proclaiming  his  successor — I 
glided  off,  in  one  of  the  dark  boats,  until  we  came  to  an  old 
arsenal  guarded  by  four  marble  lions.  To  make  my  Dream 
more  monstrous  and  unlikely,  one  of  these  had  words  and 
sentences  upon  its  body,  inscribed  there  at  an  unknown  time, 
and  in  an  unknown  language;  that  their  purport  was  a 
mystery  to  all  men. 

There  was  little  sound  of  hammers  in  this  place  for  build- 
ing ships,  and  little  work  in  progress;  for  the  greatness  of 
the  city  was  no  more,  as  I  have  said.  Indeed,  it  seemed  a 
very  wreck  found  drifting  on  the  sea;  a  strange  flag  hoisted 


BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS 


AN  ITALIAN  DREAM  9 

in  its  honourable  stations,  and  strangers  standing  at  its  helm. 
A  splendid  barge,  in  which  its  ancient  chief  had  gone  forth, 
pompously,  at  certain  periods,  to  wed  the  ocean,  lay  here,  I 
thought,  no  more;  but,  in  its  place,  there  was  a  tiny  model 
made  from  recollection  like  the  city's  greatness;  and  it  told 
of  what  had  been  (so  are  the  strong  and  weak  confounded 
in  the  dust)  almost  as  eloquently  as  the  massive  pillars, 
arches,  roofs,  reared  to  overshadow  stately  ships  that  had  no 
other  shadow  now,  upon  the  water  or  the  earth. 

An  armoury  was  there  yet.  Plundered  and  despoiled ;  but 
an  armoury.  With  a  fierce  standard  taken  from  the  Turks, 
drooping  in  the  dull  air  of  its  cage.  Rich  suits  of  mail  worn 
by  great  warriors  were  hoarded  there;  crossbows  and  bolts; 
quivers  full  of  arrows;  spears;  swords,  daggers,  maces, 
shields,  and  heavy-headed  axes.  Plates  of  wrought  steel  and 
iron,  to  make  the  gallant  horse  a  monster  cased  in  metal 
scales;  and  one  spring  weapon  (easy  to  be  carried  in  the 
breast)  designed  to  do  its  office  noiselessly,  and  made  for 
shooting  men  with  poisoned  darts. 

One  press  or  case  I  saw  full  of  accursed  instruments  of 
torture:  horribly  contrived  to  cramp,  and  pinch,  and  grind, 
and  crush  men's  bones,  and  tear  and  twist  them  with  the  tor- 
ment of  a  thousand  deaths.  Before  it  were  two  iron  helmets, 
with  breast-pieces;  made  to  close  up  tight  and  smooth  upon 
the  heads  of  living  sufferers;  and  fastened  on  to  each  was  a 
small  knob  or  anvil,  where  the  directing  devil  could  repose 
his  elbow  at  his  ease,  and  listen,  near  the  walled-up  ear,  to 
the  lamentations  and  confessions  of  the  wretch  within. 


io  VENICE 

There  was  that  grim  resemblance  in  them  to  the  human 
shape — they  were  such  moulds  of  sweating  faces,  pained  and 
cramped — that  it  was  difficult  to  think  them  empty;  and 
terrible  distortions  lingering  within  them  seemed  to  follow 
me,  when,  taking  to  my  boat  again,  I  rowed  off  to  a  kind  of 
garden  or  public  walk  in  the  sea,  where  there  were  grass  and 
trees.  But  I  forgot  them  when  I  stood  upon  its  furthest 
brink — I  stood  there  in  my  dream — and  looked,  along  the 
ripple,  to  the  setting  sun;  before  me,  in  the  sky  and  on  the 
deep,  a  crimson  flush ;  and  behind  me  the  whole  city  resolving 
into  streaks  of  red  and  purple  on  the  water. 

In  the  luxurious  wonder  of  so  rare  a  dream,  I  took  but 
little  heed  of  time,  and  had  but  little  understanding  of  its 
flight.  But  there  were  days  and  nights  in  it ;  and  when  the 
sun  was  high  and  when  the  rays  of  lamps  were  crooked  in  the 
running  water,  I  was  still  afloat,  I  thought;  plashing  the 
slippery  walls  and  houses  with  the  cleavings  of  the  tide,  as 
my  black  boat,  borne  upon  it,  skimmed  along  the  streets. 

Sometimes  alighting  at  the  doors  of  churches  and  vast 
palaces,  I  wandered  on,  from  room  to  room,  from  aisle  to 
aisle,  through  labyrinths  of  rich  altars,  ancient  monuments; 
decayed  apartments  where  the  furniture,  half  awful,  half 
grotesque,  was  moulding  away.  Pictures  were  there,  replete 
with  such  enduring  beauty  and  expression :  with  such  passion, 
truth,  and  power:  that  they  seemed  so  many  young  and  fresh 
realities  among  a  host  of  spectres.  I  thought  these  often 
intermingled  with  the  old  days  of  the  city ;  with  its  beauties, 
tyrants,  captains,  patriots,  merchants,  courtiers,  priests:  nay, 


AN  ITALIAN  DREAM  1 1 

with  its  very  stones,  and  bricks,  and  public  places;  all  of 
which  lived  again,  about  me,  on  the  walls.  Then,  coming 
down  some  marble  staircase  where  the  water  lapped  and 
oozed  against  the  lower  steps,  I  passed  into  my  boat  again, 
and  went  on  in  my  dream. 

Floating  down  narrow  lanes,  where  carpenters,  at  work 
with  plane  and  chisel  in  their  shops,  tossed  the  light  shaving 
straight  upon  the  water,  where  it  lay  like  weed,  or  ebbed 
away  before  me  in  a  tangled  heap.  Past  open  doors,  decayed 
and  rotten  from  long  steeping  in  the  wet,  through  which 
some  scanty  patch  of  vine  shone  green  and  bright,  making 
unusual  shadows  on  the  pavement  with  its  trembling  leaves. 
Past  quays  and  terraces,  where  women,  gracefully  veiled, 
were  passing  and  repassing,  and  where  idlers  were  reclining 
in  the  sunshine,  on  flagstones  and  on  flights  of  steps.  Past 
bridges,  where  there  were  idlers  too;  loitering  and  looking 
over.  Below  stone  balconies,  erected  at  a  giddy  height,  before 
the  loftiest  windows  of  the  loftiest  houses.  Past  plots  of 
garden,  theatres,  shrines,  prodigious  piles  of  architecture — 
Gothic — Saracenic — fanciful  with  all  the  fancies  of  all  times 
and  countries.  Past  buildings  that  were  high,  and  low,  and 
black,  and  white,  and  straight,  and  crooked;  mean  and 
grand,  crazy  and  strong.  Twining  among  a  tangled  lot  of 
boats  and  barges,  and  shooting  out  at  last  into  a  Grand 
Canal !  There,  in  the  errant  fancy  of  my  dream,  I  saw  old 
Shylock  passing  to  and  fro  upon  a  bridge,  all  built  upon  with 
shops  and  humming  with  the  tongues  of  men;  a  form  I 
seemed  to  know  for  Desdemona's,  leaned  down  through  a 


12  VENICE 

latticed  blind  to  pluck  a  flower.  And,  in  the  dream,  I 
thought  that  Shakespeare's  spirit  was  abroad  upon  the  water 
somewhere ;  stealing  through  the  city. 

At  night,  when  two  votive  lamps  burned  before  an  image 
of  the  Virgin,  in  a  gallery  outside  the  great  cathedral,  near 
the  roof,  I  fancied  that  the  great  piazza,  of  the  Winged  Lion 
was  a  blaze  of  cheerful  light,  and  that  its  whole  arcade  was 
thronged  with  people;  while  crowds  were  diverting  them- 
selves in  splendid  coffee-houses  opening  from  it — which  were 
never  shut,  I  thought,  but  open  all  night  long.  When  the 
bronze  giants  struck  the  hour  of  midnight  on  the  bell,  I 
thought  the  life  and  animation  of  the  city  were  all  centred 
here;  and  as  I  rowed  away,  abreast  the  silent  quays,  I  only 
saw  them  dotted,  here  and  there,  with  sleeping  boatmen 
wrapped  up  in  their  cloaks,  and  lying  at  full  length  upon  the 
stones. 

But,  close  about  the  quays  and  churches,  palaces  and 
prisons :  sucking  at  their  walls,  and  welling  up  into  the  secret 
places  of  the  town:  crept  the  water  always.  Noiseless  and 
watchful:  coiled  round  and  round  it,  in  its  many  folds,  like 
an  old  serpent :  waiting  for  the  time,  I  thought,  when  people 
should  look  down  into  its  depths  for  any  stone  of  the  old  city 
that  had  claimed  to  be  its  mistress. 

Thus  it  floated  me  away,  until  I  awoke  in  the  old  Market- 
place at  Verona.  I  had  many  and  many  a  time,  thought 
since  of  this  strange  Dream  upon  the  water:  half  wondering 
if  it  lie  there  yet,  and  if  its  name  be  Venice. 


ORIGIN  OF  VENICE 

GRANT  ALLEN 

THE  very  name  of  Venezia,  or  Venice,  by  which  we 
now  know  the  city  of  the  lagoons,  is  in  its  origin 
the  name,  not  of  a  town,  but  of  a  country.  Upon 
the  proper  comprehension  of  this  curious  fact  depends  a 
proper  comprehension  of  much  that  is  essential  in  the  early 
history  of  the  city  and  of  the  Republic. 

The  rich  and  fertile  valley  of  the  Po  had  for  its  com- 
mercial centre  from  a  very  remote  period  the  town  of 
Mediolanum  or  Milan.  But  its  port  for  the  time  being, 
though  often  altered,  lay  always  on  the  Adriatic.  That  sea 
derives  its  name,  indeed,  from  the  town  of  Hatria  (later 
corrupted  into  Adria),  which  was  the  earliest  centre  of  the 
Po  valley  traffic.  Hatria  and  its  sister  town  of  Spina,  how- 
ever, gave  way  in  imperial  Roman  times  to  Padua,  and  again 
in  the  days  of  the  lower  empire  to  Aquileia,  near  Trieste, 
and  to  Altinum,  on  the  mainland  just  opposite  Torcello. 
Padua  in  particular  was  a  very  prosperous  and  populous 
town  under  the  early  emperors ;  it  gathered  into  itself  the  sur- 
plus weath  of  the  whole  Po  valley. 

The  district  between  Verona  and  the  sea,  known  to  the 

Romans  as  Venezia,  seems  in  the  most  ancient  times  of  which 

we  have  any  record    to  have  been  inhabited  by  an  Etruscan 

population.     Later,  however,  it  was  occupied  by  the  Veneti, 

13 


14  VENICE 

an  Illyrian  tribe,  whose  name  still  survives  in  that  of  Venice 
and  in  the  district  known  as  II  Veneto.  But  much  Etruscan 
blood  must  have  remained  in  the  land  even  after  their 
conquest:  and  it  is  doubtless  to  this  persistent  Etruscan 
element  that  the  Venetians  owe  their  marked  artistic  faculty. 
The  country  of  the  Veneti  was  assimilated  and  Romanised 
(by  nominal  alliance  with  Rome),  in  the  third  century  before 
Christ.  Under  the  Romans,  Venetia,  and  its  capital  Padua, 
grew  extremely  wealthy,  and  the  trade  of  the  Lombard  plain 
(as  we  now  call  it),  the  ancient  Gallia  Cisalpina,  was  con- 
centrated on  this  district. 

The  Po  and  the  other  rivers  of  the  sub-Alpine  region  bring 
down  to  the  Adriatic  a  mass  of  silt,  which  forms  fan-like 
deltas,  and  spreads  on  either  side  of  the  mouth  in  belts  or 
bars  (the  Lido),  which  enclose  vast  lagoons  of  shallow 
water.  These  lagoons  consist  near  the  mainland  of  basking 
mudbanks,  more  or  less  reclaimed,  and  intersected  by  natural 
or  artificial  canals;  further  out  towards  the  bars,  or  Lidi, 
they  deepen  somewhat,  but  contain  in  places  numerous  low 
islands.  During  the  long  troubles  of  the  barbaric  irruptions, 
in  the  Fourth,  Fifth  and  subsequent  centuries,  the  ports  of 
the  lagoons,  better  protected  both  by  land  and  sea  than  those 
of  the  Po,  began  to  rise  into  comparative  importance ;  on  the 
south  Ravenna,  on  the  north  Altinum,  acquired  increased 
commercial  value.  The  slow  silting  up  of  the  older  har- 
bours, as  well  as  the  dangers  of  the  political  situation,  brought 
about  in  part  this  alteration  in  mercantile  conditions. 

When  Attila  and  his  Huns  invaded  Italy  in  453,  they 


PALAZZO   DARIO 


ORIGIN  OF  VENICE  15 

destroyed  Padua,  and  also  Altinum ;  and  though  we  need  not 
suppose  that  those  cities  thereupon  ceased  entirely  to  exist, 
yet  it  is  at  least  certain  that  their  commercial  importance 
was  ruined  for  the  time  being.  The  people  of  Altinum  took 
refuge  on  one  of  the  islands  in  the  lagoon,  and  built  Tor- 
cello,  which  may  thus  be  regarded  in  a  certain  sense  as  the 
mother-city  of  Venice.  Subsequent  waves  of  conquest  had 
like  results.  Later  on,  in  568,  the  Lombards,  a  German 
tribe,  invaded  Italy,  and  completed  the  ruin  of  Padua, 
Altinum  and  Aquileia.  The  relics  of  the  Romanised  and 
Christian  Veneti  then  fled  to  the  islands,  to  which  we  may 
suppose  a  constant  migration  of  fugitives  had  been  taking 
place  for  more  than  a  century.  The  Paduans,  in  particular, 
seem  to  have  settled  at  Malamocco.  The  subjected  main- 
land became  known  as  Lombardy,  from  its  Germanic  con- 
querors, and  the  free  remnant  of  the  Veneti,  still  bearing  their 
old  name,  built  new  homes  on  the  flat  islets  of  Rivo  Alto, 
Malamocco  and  Torcello,  which  were  the  most  secure  from 
attack  in  their  shallow  waters.  This  last  fringe  of  their 
territory  they  still  knew  as  Venetia  or  Venezia ;  the  particu- 
lar island,  or  group  of  islands,  on  which  modern  Venice 
now  stands,  bore  simply  at  that  time  its  original  name  of 
Rivo  Alto,  or  Rialto,  that  is  to  say,  the  Deep  Channel. 

The  Romanised  semi-Etruscan  Christian  Republic  of 
Venezia  seems  from  the  very  first  to  have  been  governed  by 
a  Dux  or  Doge  (that  is  to  say,  Duke),  in  nominal  subjec- 
tion to  the  Eastern  Emperor  at  Constantinople.  The  Goth 
and  the  Lombard,  the  Frank  and  the  Hun,  never  ruled  this 


1 6  VENICE 

last  corner  of  the  Roman  world.  The  earliest  of  the  Doges 
whose  name  has  come  down  to  us  was  Paulucius  Anafestus, 
who  is  said  to  have  died  in  716,  and  whose  seat  of  govern- 
ment seems  to  have  been  at  Torcello.  Later,  the  Doge 
of  the  Venetians  apparently  resided  at  Malamocco,  a  town 
which  no  longer  exists,  having  been  destroyed  by  submer- 
gence, though  part  of  the  bank  of  the  Lido  opposite  still 
retains  its  name.  Isolated  in  their  island  fastnesses,  the 
Venetians,  as  we  may  now  begin  to  call  them,  grew  rich 
and  powerful  at  a  time  when  the  rest  of  Western  Europe 
was  sinking  lower  and  lower  in  barbarism;  they  kept  up 
their  intercourse  with  the  civilised  Roman  east  in  Constan- 
tinople, and  also  with  Alexandria  (the  last  then  Mohamme- 
danised),  and  they  acted  as  intermediaries  between  the  Lom- 
bard Kingdom  and  the  still  Christian  Levant.  When 
Charlemagne  in  the  Eighth  Century  conquered  the  Lombards 
and  founded  the  renewed  (Teutonic)  Roman  Empire  of 
the  West,  the  Venetians,  not  yet  established  in  modern 
Venice,  fled  from  Malamocco  to  Rivo  Alto  to  escape  his 
son,  King  Pepin,  whom  they  soon  repelled  from  the  lagoons. 
About  the  same  time  they  seem  to  have  made  themselves 
practically  independent  of  the  eastern  empire,  without  be- 
coming a  part  of  the  western  and  essentially  German  one 
of  the  Carlovingians.  Not  long  after,  Malamocco  was 
deserted,  partly  no  doubt  owing  to  the  destruction  by  Pepin, 
but  partly  also  perhaps  because  it  began  to  be  threatened  with 
submergence:  and  the  Venetians  then  determined  to  fix  their 
seat  of  government  on  Rivo  Alto,  or  Rialto,  the  existing 


ORIGIN  OF  VENICE  17 

Venice.  For  a  long  time  the  new  town  was  still  spoken 
of  as  Rialto,  as  indeed  a  part  of  it  is  by  its  own  inhabitants 
to  the  present  day;  but  gradually  the  general  name  of  Vene- 
zia,  which  belonged  properly  to  the  entire  Republic,  grew 
to  be  confined  in  usage  to  its  capital,  and  most  of  us  now 
know  the  city  only  as  Venice. 

Pepin  was  driven  off  in  809.  The  Doge's  Palace  was 
transferred  to  Rialto,  and  raised  on  the  site  of  the  exist- 
ing building  (according  to  tradition)  in  819.  Angelus 
Participotius  was  the  first  Doge  to  occupy  it.  From  that 
period  forward  to  the  French  Revolution,  one  palace  after 
another  housed  the  Duke  of  the  Venetians  on  the  same  site. 
This  was  the  real  nucleus  of  the  town  of  Venice,  though  the 
oldest  part  lay  near  the  Rialto  bridge.  Malamocco  did  not 
entirely  disappear,  however,  till  1107.  The  silting  up  of 
the  harbour  of  Ravenna,  the  chief  port  of  the  Adriatic  in 
late  Roman  times,  and  long  an  outlier  of  the  Byzantine 
empire,  contributed  greatly,  no  doubt,  to  the  rise  of  Venice: 
while  the  adoption  of  Rivo  Alto  with  its  deep  navigable 
channel  as  the  capital  marks  the  gradual  growth  of  an  ex- 
ternal commerce. 

The  Republic  which  thus  sprang  up  among  the  islands 
of  the  lagoons  was  at  first  confined  to  the  little  archipelago 
itself,  though  it  still  looked  upon  Aquileia  and  Altinum  as  its 
mother  cities,  and  still  acknowledged  in  ecclesiastical  mat- 
ters the  supremacy  of  the  Patriarch  of  Grado.  After  the 
repulse  of  King  Pepin,  however,  the  Republic  began  to 
recognise  its  own  strength  and  the  importance  of  its  posi- 


1 8  VENICE 

tion,  and  embarked  slowly  at  first,  on  a  career  of  commerce 
and  then  of  conquest.  Its  earliest  acquisitions  of  territory 
were  on  the  opposite  Slavonic  coast  of  Istria  and  Dalmatia; 
gradually  its  trade  with  the  east  led  it,  at  the  beginning  of 
the  Crusades,  to  acquire  territory  in  the  Levant  and  the 
Greek  Archipelago.  This  eastern  extension  was  mainly  due 
to  the  conquest  of  Constantinople  by  Doge  Enrico  Dandolo 
during  the  Fourth  Crusade  (1204),  an  epoch-making  event 
in  the  history  of  Venice  which  must  constantly  be  borne 
in  mind  in  examining  her  art-treasures.  The  little  outlying 
western  dependency  had  vanquished  the  capital  of  the  Chris- 
tian Eastern  Empire  to  which  it  once  belonged.  The  great- 
ness of  Venice  dates  from  this  period;  it  became  the  chief 
carrier  between  the  east  and  the  west;  its  vessels  exported 
the  surplus  wealth  of  the  Lombard  plain,  and  brought  in 
return,  not  only  the  timber  and  stone  of  Istria  and  Dal- 
matia, but  the  manufactured  wares  of  Christian  Constan- 
tinople, the  wines  of  the  Greek  isles,  and  the  oriental  silks, 
carpets  and  spices  of  Mohammedan  Egypt,  Arabia  and  Bag- 
dad. The  Crusades,  which  impoverished  the  rest  of  Europe, 
doubly  enriched  Venice:  she  had  the  carrying  and  trans- 
port traffic  in  her  own  hands;  and  her  conquests  gave  her 
the  spoil  of  many  eastern  cities. 

It  is  important  to  bear  in  mind,  also,  that  the  Venetian 
Republic  (down  to  the  French  Revolution),  was  the  one 
part  of  western  Europe  which  never  at  any  time  formed 
a  portion  of  any  Teutonic  Empire,  Gothic,  Lombard,  Frank, 
or  Saxon.  Alone  in  the  west,  it  carried  on  unbroken  the 


ORIGIN  OF  VENICE  19 

traditions  of  the  Roman  empire,  and  continued  its  cor- 
porate life  without  Teutonic  adulteration.  Its  peculiar  posi- 
tion as  the  gate  between  the  east  and  west  made  a  deep  im- 
press upon  its  arts  and  its  architecture.  The  city  remained 
long  in  friendly  intercourse  with  the  Byzantine  realm;  and 
an  oriental  tinge  is  thus  to  be  found  in  all  its  early  buildings 
and  mosaics.  St.  Mark's  in  particular  is  based  on  St.  Sophia 
at  Constantinople;  the  capitals  of  its  columns  in  both  are 
strikingly  similar;  even  Arab  influence  and  the  example  of 
Cairo  (or  rather  of  early  Alexandria),  are  visible  in  many 
parts  of  the  building.  Another  element  which  imparts 
oriental  tone  to  Venice  is  the  number  of  imported  works  of 
art  from  Greek  churches.  Some  of  these  the  Republic 
frankly  stole;  others  it  carried  away  in  good  faith  during 
times  of  stress  to  prevent  them  from  falling  into  the  hands 
of  the  Mohammedan  conquerors.  The  older  part  of  Venice 
is  thus  to  some  extent  a  museum  of  applied  antiquities;  the 
bronze  horses  from  Constantinople  over  the  portal  of  St. 
Mark's,  the  pillars  of  St.  John  of  Acre  on  the  south  facade ; 
the  Greek  lions  of  the  Arsenal,  the  four  porphyry  emperors 
near  the  Doge's  palace  are  cases  in  point;  and  similar  in- 
stances will  meet  the  visitor  everywhere.  Many  bodies  of 
Greek  or  eastern  saints  were  also  carried  off  from  Syria 
or  Asia  Minor  to  preserve  them  from  desecration  at  the 
hands  of  the  infidel ;  and  with  these  saints  came  their  legends, 
unknown  elsewhere  in  the  west;  so  that  the  mosaics  and 
sculptures  based  on  them  give  a  further  note  of  orientalism 
to  much  of  Venice.  It  may  also  be  noted  that  the  intense 


20  VENICE 

Venetian  love  of  colour,  and  the  eye  for  colour  which  accom- 
panies it,  are  rather  eastern  than  western  qualities.  This 
peculiarity  of  a  pure  colour-sense  is  extremely  noticeable 
both  in  Venetian  architecture  and  Venetian  painting. 

The  first  Venice  with  which  the  traveller  will  have  to  deal 
is  thus  essentially  a  Romanesque-Byzantine  city.  It  rose 
during  the  decay  of  the  Roman  empire,  far  from  barbaric 
influences.  Its  buildings  are  Byzantine  in  type;  its  mosaics 
are  mostly  the  work  of  Greek  or  half-Greek  artists;  its 
Madonnas  and  saints  are  Greek  in  aspect;  and  even  the 
very  lettering  of  the  inscriptions  is  in  Greek,  not  in  Latin. 
And  though  ecclesiastically  Venice  belonged  to  the  western 
or  Roman  church,  the  general  assemblage  of  her  early  saints 
(best  seen  in  the  Atrium  and  Baptistery  of  St.  Mark's),  is 
thoroughly  oriental.  We  must  remember  that  during  all 
her  first  great  period  she  was  connected  by  the  sea  with 
Constantinople  and  the  east,  but  cut  off  by  the  lagoons  and 
the  impenetrable  marshes  from  all  intercourse  with  Teu- 
tonised  Lombardy  and  the  rest  of  Italy.  In  front  lay  her 
highway;  behind  lay  her  moat.  At  this  period,  indeed, 
it  is  hardly  too  much  to  say  that  (save  for  the  accident 
of  language),  Venice  was  rather  a  Greek  than  an  Italian 
city. 

I  strongly  advise  the  tourist,  therefore,  to  begin  by  form- 
ing a  clear  conception  of  this  early  Greekish  Venice  of  the 
Tenth,  Eleventh,  Twelfth  and  Thirteenth  Centuries,  and 
then  go  on  to  observe  how  the  later  Italianate  Venice  grew 
slowly  out  of  it.  Mediaeval  Italy  was  not  Roman  but  Teu- 


ORIGIN  OF  VENICE  21 

tonised:  influences  from  the  Teutonic  Italy  were  late  in 
affecting  the  outlying  lagoon-land. 

The  beginnings  of  the  change  came  with  the  conquests 
of  Venice  on  the  Italian  mainland.  Already  Gothic  art 
from  the  west  had  feebly  invaded  the  Republic  with  the  rise 
of  the  great  Dominican  and  Franciscan  churches  (San 
Giovanni  e  Paolo  and  the  Frari) :  the  extension  of  Venice 
to  the  west,  by  the  conquest  of  Padua  and  Verona  (1405) 
completed  the  assimilation.  Thenceforward  the  Renaissance 
began  to  make  its  mark  on  the  city  of  the  lagoons,  though 
at  a  much  later  date  than  elsewhere  in  Italy.  I  recom- 
mended the  visitor  accordingly,  after  he  has  familiarised 
himself  with  Byzantine  Venice,  to  trace  the  gradual  en- 
croachment of  Gothic  art,  and  then  the  Renaissance  move- 
ment. 

It  is  best,  then  to  begin  with  the  architecture,  sculpture, 
and  mosaics  of  St.  Mark's;  in  connection  with  which  the 
few  remaining  Byzantine  palaces  ought  to  be  examined. 
The  Byzantine  period  is  marked  by  the  habit  of  sawing  up 
precious  marbles  and  other  coloured  stones  (imported 
for  the  most  part  from  earlier  eastern  buildings),  and  using 
them  as  a  thin  veneer  for  the  incrustation  of  brick  buildings; 
also,  by  the  frequent  employment  of  decorations  made  by 
inserting  ancient  reliefs  in  the  blank  walls  of  churches  or 
houses.  The  eastern  conquests  of  Venice  made  oriental 
buildings  a  quarry  for  her  architects.  The  Gothic  period 
is  marked  by  a  peculiar  local  style,  showing  traces  of  Byzan- 
tine and  Arab  influence.  The  early  Renaissance  work  at 


22  VENICE 

Venice  is  nobler  and  more  dignified  than  elsewhere  in  Italy. 
The  baroque  school  of  the  Seventeenth  Century,  on  the 
other  hand  is  nowhere  so  appalling. 

Venice  was  essentially  a  commercial  Republic.  Her  great- 
ness lay  in  her  wealth.  She  flourished  as  long  as  she  was 
the  sole  carrier  between  east  and  west;  she  declined  rapidly 
after  the  discovery  of  America,  and  of  the  route  to  India 
round  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  which  made  the  Atlantic 
supersede  the  Mediterranean  as  the  highway  of  the  nations. 
As  Antwerp,  Amsterdam  and  London  rose,  Venice  fell. 
The  re-opening  of  the  Mediterranean  route  by  the  con- 
struction of  the  Suez  Canal  has  galvanised  her  port  into 
a  slightly  increased  vitality  of  recent  years;  but  she  is  still 
in  the  main  a  beautiful  fossil-bed  of  various  strata,  extend- 
ing from  the  Tenth  to  the  Seventeenth  Centuries. 

Whoever  enters  Venice  by  rail  at  the  present  day  ought 
to  bear  in  mind  that  he  arrives  (across  the  lagoon),  by  the 
back  door.  The  front  door  was  designed  for  those  who 
came  by  sea;  there,  Venice  laid  herself  out  to  receive  them 
with  fitting  splendour.  The  ambassadors  or  merchants 
who  sailed  up  the  navigable  channel  from  the  mouth  of  the 
Lido,  saw  first  the  Piazza,  the  Piazzetta,  the  two  great 
granite  columns,  the  campanile,  St.  Mark's,  and  the  im- 
posing fagade  of  the  Doge's  Palace,  reinforced  at  a  later 
date  by  the  white  front  of  San  Giorgio  Maggiore  and  the 
cupolas  of  the  Salute.  This,  though  not  perhaps  the  oldest 
part  of  the  town,  is  the  nucleus  of  historical  Venice;  and  to 
it  the  traveller  should  devote  the  greater  part  of  his  atten- 


ORIGIN  OF  VENICE  23 

tion.  I  strongly  advise  those  whose  stay  is  limited  not  to 
try  to  see  all  the  churches  and  collections  of  the  city,  but 
to  confine  themselves  strictly  to  St.  Mark's,  the  Doge's 
Palace,  the  Academy,  the  Four  Great  Plague-Churches,  and 
the  tour  of  the  Grand  Canal,  made  slowly  in  a  gondola. 

Those  who  have  three  or  four  weeks  at  their  disposal, 
however,  ought  early  in  their  visit  to  see  Torcello  and  Mu- 
rano — Torcello,  as  perhaps  the  most  ancient  city  of  the 
lagoons,  still  preserved  for  us  in  something  like  its  antique 
simplicity,  amid  picturesque  desolation;  Murano,  as  helping 
us  to  reconstruct  the  idea  of  Byzantine  Venice.  It  is  above 
all  things  important  not  to  mix  up  in  one  whirling  picture 
late  additions  like  the  Salute  and  the  Ponte  di  Rialto  with 
early  Byzantine  buildings  like  St.  Mark's  or  the  Palazzo 
Loredan,  with  Gothic  architecture  like  the  Doge's  Palace, 
or  the  Ca'  d'  Oro,  and  with  Renaissance  masterpieces,  like 
the  Libreria  Vecchia,  or  the  ceilings  of  Paolo  Veronese. 
Here  more  than  anywhere  else  in  Europe,  save  at  Rome 
alone,  though  chronological  treatment  is  difficult,  a  strictly 
chronological  comprehension  of  the  various  stages  of  growth 
is  essential  to  a  right  judgment. 

Walk  by  land  as  much  as  possible.  See  what  you  see 
in  a  very  leisurely  fashion.  Venice  is  all  detail;  unless  you 
read  the  meaning  of  the  detail,  it  will  be  of  little  use  to 
you.  Of  course  the  mere  colour  and  strangeness  and  pic- 
turesqueness  of  the  water-city  are  a  joy  in  themselves;  but 
if  you  desire  to  learn,  you  must  be  prepared  to  give  many 
days  to  St.  Mark's  alone,  and  to  examine  it  slowly. 


24  VENICE 

The  patron  saints  of  Venice  are  too  numerous  to  cata- 
logue. A  few  need  only  be  borne  in  mind  by  those  who 
pay  but  a  short  visit  of  a  month  or  so.  The  Venetian 
fleets  in  the  early  ages  brought  home  so  many  bodies  of  saints 
that  the  city  became  a  veritable  repository  of  holy  corpses. 
First  and  foremost,  of  course,  comes  St.  Mark,  whose  name, 
whose  effigy,  and  whose  winged  lion  occur  everywhere  in 
the  city;  to  the  Venetian  of  the  Middle  Ages,  he  was  almost, 
indeed,  the  embodiment  of  Venice.  He  sleeps  at  St.  Mark's. 
The  body  of  St.  Theodore,  the  earlier  patron,  never  entirely 
dispossessed,  lay  in  the  Scuola  (or  Guild),  of  St.  Theodore, 
near  the  church  of  San  Salvatore  (now  a  furniture  shop). 
But  the  chief  subsidiary  saints  of  later  Venice  were  St. 
George  and  St.  Catharine,  patrons  of  the  territories  of 
the  Republic  to  the  first  of  whom  many  churches  are  dedi- 
cated, while  the  second  appears  everywhere  on  numerous 
pictures  and  reliefs.  The  great  plague  saints  are  Sebastian, 
Roch  and  Job.  These  seven  the  tourist  must  remember 
and  expect  to  recognise  at  every  turn  in  his  wanderings. 
The  body  of  St.  Nicholas,  the  sailor's  saint,  lay  at  San 
Niccolo  di  Lido,  though  a  rival  body,  better  authenticated 
or  more  believed  in,  was  kept  at  Bari. 

The  costume  of  the  Doges,  and  the  Doge's  cap;  the 
Venetian  type  of  Justice,  with  sword  and  scales;  the  almost 
indistinguishable  figure  of  Venezia,  also  with  sword  and 
scales,  enthroned  between  lions;  and  many  like  local  alle- 
gories or  symbols,  the  visitor  should  note  and  try  to  under- 
stand from  the  moment  of  his  arrival. 


VENICE  AND  ROME 

JOHN  RICHARD  GREEN 

IT  is  the  strangeness  and  completeness  of  the  contrast 
which  makes  one's  first  row  from  Venice  to  Torcello 
so  hard  to  forget.  Behind  us  the  great  city  sinks 
slowly  into  a  low  line  of  domes  and  towers;  around  us, 
dotted  here  and  there  over  the  gleaming  surface,  are  the 
orange  sails  of  trailing  market  boats;  we  skirt  the  great 
hay-barges  of  Mazarbo,  whose  boatmen  bandy  lazzi  and 
badinage  with  our  gondolier;  we  glide  by  a  lonely  cypress 
into  a  broader  reach  and,  in  front,  across  a  waste  of  brown 
sedge  and  brushwood,  the  tower  of  Torcello  rises  sharply 
against  the  sky.  There  is  something  weird  and  unearthly 
in  the  suddenness  with  which  one  passes  from  the  bright, 
luminous  waters  of  the  lagoon,  barred  with  soft  lines  of 
violet  light  and  broken  with  reflections  of  wall  and  bell- 
tower,  into  this  presence  of  desolation  and  death.  A  whole 
world  seems  to  part  those  dreary  flats  broken  with  lifeless 
inlets,  those  patches  of  sodden  fields  flung  shapelessly  among 
sheets  of  sullen  water  from  the  life  and  joy  of  the  Grand 
Canal.  And  yet,  really  to  understand  the  origin  of  Venice, 
those  ages  of  terror  and  flight  and  exile  in  which  the  Republic 
took  its  birth,  we  must  study  them  at  Torcello.  It  was 
from  the  vast  Alpine  chain,  which  hangs  in  the  haze  of  mid- 
day like  a  long,  dim  cloud-line  to  the  north,  that  the  hordes 

25 


26  VENICE 

of  Hun  and  Goth  burst  on  the  Roman  world.  Their  path 
lay  along  the  coast,  trending  round  to  the  west,  where, 
lost  among  little  villages  that  stand  out  white  in  the  distant 
shadow,  lie  the  sites  of  Heraclea  and  Altinum.  Across 
these  grey  shallows,  cut  by  the  blue  serpentine  windings 
of  deeper  channels,  the  Romans  of  the  older  province  of 
Venetia  on  the  mainland  fled  before  Attila  or  Theodoric 
or  Alboin,  to  found  the  new  Venetia  of  the  lagoon.  East- 
ward, over  Lido,  the  glimmer  of  the  Adriatic  recalls  the 
long  centuries  of  the  Pirate  War,  that  struggle  for  life 
which  shaped  into  their  after-form  the  government  and 
destinies  of  the  infant  State.  Venice  itself,  the  crown  and 
end  of  struggle  and  of  flight,  lies,  over  shining  miles  of 
water,  to  the  south.  But  it  is  here  that  one  can  best  study 
the  story  of  its  birth;  it  is  easier  to  realise  those  centuries 
of  exile  and  buffeting  for  life  amidst  the  dreary  flats,  the 
solitude,  the  poverty  of  Torcello,  than  beneath  the  gleam- 
ing front  of  the  Ducal  Palace  or  the  mosaics  of  St.  Mark. 
Here,  in  fact,  lies  the  secret  of  Venetian  history,  the  one 
key  by  which  it  is  possible  to  understand  the  strange  riddle 
of  the  Republic.  For  thirteen  centuries  Venice  lay  moored, 
as  it  were,  off  the  coast  of  Western  Europe,  without  politi- 
cal analogue  or  social  parallel.  Its  patriciate,  its  people,  its 
government,  were  not  what  government  or  people  or  patri- 
ciate were  in  other  countries  of  Western  Christendom.  The 
difference  lay  not  in  any  peculiar  institutions  which  it  had 
developed,  or  in  any  novel  form  of  social  or  administrative 
order  which  it  had  invented,  but  in  the  very  origin  of  the 


VENICE  AND  ROME  27 

state  itself.  We  see  this  the  better  if  we  turn  from  Venice 
to  our  own  homeland.  The  same  age  saw  the  birth  of  the 
two  great  maritime  powers  of  modern  Europe;  for  the 
settlements  of  the  English  in  Britain  cover  the  same  cen- 
tury with  those  of  the  Roman  exiles  in  the  Venetian  lagoon. 
But  the  English  colonisation  was  the  establishment  of  a 
purely  Teutonic  state  on  the  wreck  of  Rome,  while  the 
Venetian  was  the  establishment  of  a  purely  Roman  state 
in  the  face  of  the  Teuton.  Venice,  in  its  origin,  was  simply 
the  imperial  province  of  Venetia  floated  across  to  the  islands 
of  the  shore.  Before  the  successive  waves  of  the  Northern 
inroad,  the  citizens  of  the  coast  fled  to  the  sand-banks  which 
had  long  served  them  as  gardens  or  merchant-ports.  The 
"  Chair  of  Atilla,"  the  rough  stone  seat  beside  the  Church 
of  San  Fosco,  preserves  the  memory  of  one  destroyer  before 
whom  a  third  part  of  the  people  of  Altinum  fled  to  Tor- 
cello  and  the  islands  around.  Their  city — even  materially 
— passed  with  them.  The  new  houses  were  built  from 
ruins  of  the  old.  The  very  stones  of  Altinum  served  for 
the  "  New  Altinum  "  which  arose  on  the  desolate  isle,  and 
inscriptions,  pillars,  capitals  came,  in  the  track  of  the  exiles 
across  the  lagoon,  to  be  worked  into  the  fabric  of  its 
cathedral. 

Neither  citizens  nor  city  was  changed  even  in  name. 
They  had  put  out,  for  security,  a  few  miles  to  sea,  but  the 
sand-banks  on  which  they  landed  were  still  Venetia.  The 
fugitive  patricians  were  neither  more  nor  less  citizens  of 
the  imperial  province  because  they  had  fled  from  Padua  or 


28  VENICE 

Altinum  or  Malamocco  or  Torcello.  Their  political  alle- 
giance was  still  due  to  the  Empire.  Their  social  organi- 
sation remained  unaffected  by  the  flight.  So  far  were  they 
from  being  severed  from  Rome,  so  far  from  entertaining 
any  dreams  of  starting  afresh  in  the  "  new  democracy " 
which  exists  in  the  imagination  of  Daru  and  his  followers, 
that  the  one  boast  of  their  annalists  is  that  they  are  more 
Roman  than  the  Romans  themselves.  Their  nobles  looked 
with  contempt  on  the  barbaric  blood  which  had  tainted 
that  of  the  Colonnas  or  the  Orsini;  nor  did  any  Isaurian 
peasant  ever  break  the  Roman  line  of  doges  as  Leo  broke 
the  line  of  Roman  emperors.  Venice — as  she  proudly 
styled  herself  in  aftertime — was  "  the  legitimate  daughter 
of  Rome."  The  strip  of  sea-board  from  the  Brenta  to  the 
Isonzo  was  the  one  spot  in  the  Empire,  from  the  Caspian 
to  the  Atlantic,  where  foot  of  barbarian  never  trod.  And 
as  it  rose,  so  it  set.  From  that  older  world  of  which  it 
was  a  part,  the  history  of  Venice  stretched  on  to  the  French 
Revolution,  untouched  by  Teutonic  influences.  The  old 
Roman  life,  which  became  strange  even  to  the  Capitol, 
lingered,  unaltered,  unimpaired,  beside  the  palace  of  the 
duke.  The  strange  ducal  cap,  the  red  ducal  slippers,  the 
fan  of  bright  feathers  borne  before  the  ducal  chair,  all 
came  unchanged  from  ages  when  they  were  the  distinctions 
of  every  great  officer  of  the  Imperial  State.  It  is  startling 
to  think  that  almost  within  the  memory  of  living  men 
Venice  brought  Rome — the  Rome  of  Ambrose  and  Theo- 
dosius — to  the  very  doors  of  the  Western  world;  that  the 


VENICE  AND  ROME  29 

living  and  unchanged  tradition  of  the  Empire  passed  away 
only  with  the  last  of  the  doges.  On  the  tomb  of  Manin 
could  men  write  truthfully,  "  Hie  jacet  ultimus  Roman- 
orum." 

It  is  this  simple  continuance  of  the  old  social  organisa- 
tion, which  the  barbarians  elsewhere  overthrew,  that  ex- 
plains the  peculiar  character  of  the  Venetian  patriciate.  In 
all  other  countries  of  the  West,  the  new  feudal  aristocracy 
sprung  from  the  Teutonic  invaders.  In  Italy  itself,  the  nobles 
were  descendants  of  Lombard  conquerors,  or  of  the  barons 
who  followed  emperor  after  emperor  across  the  Alps.  Even 
when  their  names  and  characters  had  alike  been  moulded 
into  Southern  form,  the  "  Seven  Houses  "  of  Pisa  boasted 
of  their  descent  from  the  seven  barons  of  Emperor  Otto. 
But  the  older  genealogies  of  the  senators,  whose  names 
stood  written  in  the  Golden  Book  of  Venice,  ran,  truly  or 
falsely,  not  to  Teutonic,  but  to  Roman  origins.  The  Par- 
ticipazzii,  the  Dandoli,  the  Falieri,  the  Foscari,  told  of  the 
flight  of  their  Roman  fathers  before  the  barbarian  sword 
from  Pavia,  Gaeta,  Fano,  Messina.  Every  quarter  of  Italy 
had  given  its  exiles,  but,  above  all,  the  coast  round  the  head 
of  the  Gulf  from  Ravenna  to  Trieste.  It  was  especially 
a  flight  and  settlement  of  nobles.  As  soon  as  the  barbaric 
hordes  had  swept  away  to  the  South,  the  farmer  or  the 
peasant  would  creep  back  to  his  fields  and  his  cabin,  and 
submit  to  the  German  master  whom  the  conquest  had  left 
behind  it.  But  the  patrician  had  filled  too  great  a  place 
in  the  old  social  order  to  stoop  easily  to  the  new.  He 


30  VENICE 

remained  camped  as  before  in  the  island-refuge,  among  a 
crowd  of  dependents,  his  fishermen,  his  dock-labourers. 
Throughout  the  long  ages  which  followed  this  original  form 
of  Venetian  society  remained  unchanged.  The  populace 
of  dependents  never  grew  into  a  people.  To  the  last,  fisher- 
man and  gondolier  clung  to  the  great  houses  of  which  they 
were  the  clients,  as  the  fishers  of  Torcello  had  clung  to 
the  great  nobles  of  Altinum.  No  difference  of  tradition 
or  language  or  blood  parted  them.  Tradition,  on  the  con- 
trary, bound  them  together.  No  democratic  agitator  could 
appeal  from  the  present  to  the  past,  as  Rienzi  invoked  the 
memories  of  the  Tribunate  against  the  feudal  tyranny  of 
the  Colonnas.  In  Venice  the  past  and  present  were  one. 
The  patrician  of  Venice  simply  governed  the  State  as  his 
fathers,  the  curials  of  Padua  or  Aquileia,  had  governed  the 
State  ten  centuries  before  him. 

It  is  this  unity  of  Venetian  society  which  makes  Venetian 
history  so  unlike  the  history  of  other  Italian  towns,  and  to 
which  Venice  owes  the  peculiar  picturesqueness  and  bright- 
ness which  charm  us  still  in  its  decay.  Elsewhere  the  his- 
tory of  mediaeval  Italy  sprung  from  the  difference  of  race 
and  tradition  between  conquered  and  conquerors,  between 
Lombard  noble  and  Italian  serf.  The  communal  revolt  of 
the  Twelfth  Century,  the  democratic  constitution  of  Milan 
or  of  Bologna,  were  in  effect  a  rising  of  race  against  race, 
the  awakening  of  a  new  people  in  the  effort  to  throw  off 
the  yoke  of  the  stranger.  The  huge  embattled  piles  which 
flung  their  dark  shadows  over  the  streets  of  Florence  tell 


VENICE  AND  ROME  31 

of  the  ceaseless  war  between  baronage  and  people.  The 
famous  penalty  by  which  some  of  the  democratic  communes 
condemned  a  recreant  cobbler  or  tinker  to  "  descend,"  as 
his  worse  punishment,  "  into  the  order  of  the  noblesse" 
tells  of  the  hate  and  issue  of  the  struggle  between  them. 
But  no  trace  of  a  struggle  or  hate  breaks  the  annals  of 
Venice.  There  is  no  people,  no  democratic  Broletto,  no 
Hall  of  the  Commune.  And  as  there  was  no  "  people," 
so  in  the  mediaeval  sense  of  the  word  there  was  no  "  baron- 
age." The  nobles  of  Venice  were  not  Lombard  barons, 
but  Roman  patricians,  untouched  by  feudal  traditions,  or 
by  the  strong  instinct  of  personal  independence  which 
created  feudalism.  The  shadow  of  the  Empire  is  always 
over  them ;  they  look  for  greatness  not  to  independent  power 
or  strife,  but  to  joint  co-operation  in  the  government  of  the 
State.  Their  instinct  is  administrative;  they  shrink  from 
disorder  as  from  a  barbaric  thing;  they  are  citizens,  and 
nobles  only  because  they  are  citizens.  Of  this  political  atti- 
tude of  its  patricians,  Venice  is  itself  the  type.  The  pal- 
aces of  Torcello  or  Rialto  were  houses  not  of  war  but  of 
peace;  no  dark  masses  of  tower  and  wall,  but  bright  with 
marbles  and  frescoes,  and  broken  with  arcades  of  fretted 
masonry. 

Venice,  in  a  word,  to  her  very  close  was  a  city  of  nobles, 
the  one  place  in  the  modern  world  where  the  old  sena- 
torial houses  of  the  Fifth  Century  lived  and  ruled  as  of 
old.  But  it  was  a  city  of  Roman  nobles.  Like  the  Teutonic 
passion  for  war,  the  Teutonic  scorn  of  commerce  was  strange 


32  VENICE 

and  unknown  to  the  curial  houses  of  the  Italian  munici- 
palities, as  it  had  been  strange  and  unknown  to  the  greatest 
houses  of  Rome.  The  senator  of  Padua  or  Aquileia,  of 
Concordia,  Altinum,  or  Ravenna,  had  always  been  a  mer- 
chant, and  in  his  new  refuge  he  remained  a  merchant  still. 
Venice  was  no  "  crowd  of  poor  fishermen,"  as  it  has 
been  sometimes  described,  who  were  gradually  drawn  to 
wider  ventures  and  a  larger  commerce.  The  port  of  Aquf- 
leia  had  long  been  the  emporium  of  a  trade  which  reached 
northward  to  the  Danube  and  eastward  to  Byzantine.  What 
the  Roman  merchants  of  Venetia  had  been  at  Aquileia,  they 
remained  at  Grado.  The  commerce  of  Altinum  simply 
transferred  itself  to  Torcello.  The  Paduan  merchants 
passed  to  their  old  port  of  Rialto.  Vague  and  rhetorical 
as  is  the  letter  of  Cassiodorus,  it  shows  how  keen  was  the 
mercantile  activity  of  the  State  from  its  beginning. 
Nothing  could  be  more  natural,  more  continuous  in  its  his- 
torical development;  nothing  was  more  startling,  more  in- 
comprehensible to  the  new  world  which  had  grown  up  in 
German  moulds.  The  nobles  of  Henry  VIII. 's  court  could 
not  restrain  their  sneer  at  "the  fishermen  of  Venice,"  the 
stately  patricians  who  could  look  back  from  merchant  noble 
to  merchant  noble  through  ages  when  the  mushroom  houses 
of  England  were  unheard  of.  Only  the  genius  of  Shake- 
speare seized  the  grandeur  of  a  social  organisation  which 
was  still  one  with  that  of  Rome  and  Athens  and  Tyre.  The 
merchant  of  Venice  is  with  him  "  a  royal  merchant."  His 
"  argosies  o'ertop  the  petty  traffickers."  At  the  moment 


VENICE  AND  ROME  33 

when  feudalism  was  about  to  vanish  away,  the  poet  com- 
prehended the  grandeur  of  that  commerce  which  it  scorned, 
and  the  grandeur  of  the  one  State  which  had  carried  the 
nobler  classic  tradition  across  ages  of  brutality  and  ignor- 
ance. The  great  commercial  state  whose  merchants  are 
nobles,  whose  nobles  are  Romans,  rises  in  all  its  majesty 
before  us  in  the  Merchant  of  Venice. 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  LAGOONS 

JOHN  RUSK  IN 

IN  the  olden  days  of  travelling,  now  to  return  no  more, 
in  which  distance  could  not  be  vanquished  without 
toil,  but  in  which  that  toil  was  rewarded,  partly  by 
the  power  of  deliberate  survey  of  the  countries  through  which 
the  journey  lay,  and  partly  by  the  happiness  of  the  evening 
hours,  when,  from  the  top  of  the  last  hill  he  had  surmounted, 
the  traveller  beheld  the  quiet  village  where  he  was  to  rest, 
scattered  among  the  meadows  beside  its  valley  stream;  or, 
from  the  long  hoped  for  turn  in  the  dusty  perspective  of 
the  causeway,  saw,  for  the  first  time,  the  towers  of  some 
famed  city,  faint  in  the  rays  of  sunset — hours  of  peaceful 
and  thoughtful  pleasure,  for  which  the  rush  of  the  arrival 
in  the  railway  station  is  perhaps,  not  always,  or  to  all 
men  an  equivalent, — in  those  days,  I  say,  when  there  was 
something  more  to  be  anticipated  and  remembered  in  the 
first  aspect  of  each  successive  halting-place,  than  a  new 
arrangement  of  glass  roofing  and  iron  girder,  there  were 
few  moments  of  which  the  recollection  was  more  fondly 
cherished  by  the  traveller  than  that  which  brought  him 
within  sight  of  Venice,  as  his  gondola  shot  into  the  open 
lagoon  from  the  canal  of  Mestre.  Not  but  that  the  aspect 
of  the  city  itself  was  generally  the  source  of  some  slight 
disappointment,  for,  seen  in  this  direction,  its  buildings 
are  far  less  characteristic  than  those  of  the  other  great 
34 


THE  CITY  OF  LAGOONS         35 

towns  of  Italy;  but  this  inferiority  was  partly  disguised  by 
distance,  and  more  than  atoned  for  by  the  strange  rising 
of  its  walls  and  towers  out  of  the  midst,  as  it  seemed,  of 
the  deep  sea,  for  it  was  impossible  that  the  mind  or  eye 
could  at  once  comprehend  the  shallowness  of  the  vast  sheet 
of  water  which  stretched  away  in  leagues  of  rippling  lustre 
to  the  north  and  south,  or  trace  the  narrow  line  of  islets 
bounding  it  to  the  east.  The  salt  breeze,  the  white  moan- 
ing sea-birds,  the  masses  of  black  weed  separating  and  dis- 
appearing gradually,  in  knots  of  heaving  shoal,  under  the 
advance  of  the  steady  tide,  all  proclaimed  it  to  be  indeed 
the  ocean  on  whose  bosom  the  great  city  rested  so  calmly; 
not  such  blue,  soft,  lake-like  ocean  as  bathes  beneath  the 
Neapolitan  promontories,  or  sleeps  beneath  the  marble  rock 
of  Genoa,  but  a  sea  with  the  bleak  power  of  our  own  north- 
ern waves,  yet  subdued  into  a  strange  spacious  rest,  and 
changed  from  its  angry  pallor  into  a  field  of  burnished  gold, 
as  the  sun  declined  behind  the  belfry  to\ver  of  the  lonely 
island  church,  fitly  named  "  St.  George  of  the  Seaweed." 
As  the  boat  drew  nearer  to  the  city,  the  coast  which  the 
traveller  had  just  left  sank  behind  him  into  one  long,  low, 
sad-coloured  line,  tufted  irregularly  with  brushwood  and 
willows:  but,  at  what  seemed  its  northern  extremity,  the 
hills  of  Arqua  rose  in  a  dark  cluster  of  purple  pyramids 
balanced  on  the  bright  mirage  of  the  lagoon;  two  or  three 
smooth  surges  of  inferior  hill  extended  themselves  about 
their  roots,  and  beyond  these,  beginning  with  the  craggy 
peaks  above  Vicenza,  the  chain  of  the  Alps  girded  the  whole 


36  VENICE 

horizon  to  the  north,  a  wall  of  jagged  blue  here  and  there 
showing  through  its  clefts  a  wilderness  of  misty  precipices, 
fading  far  back  into  the  recesses  of  Cadore,  and  itself  ris- 
ing and  breaking  away  eastward,  where  the  sun  struck 
opposite  upon  its  snow,  into  mighty  fragments  of  peaked 
light,  standing  up  behind  the  barred  clouds  of  evening,  one 
after  another,  countless,  the  crown  of  the  Adrian  Sea,  until 
the  eye  turned  back  from  pursuing  them,  to  rest  upon  the 
nearer  burning  of  the  campaniles  of  Murano,  and  on  the 
great  city,  where  it  magnified  itself  along  the  waves,  as 
the  quick  silent  pacing  of  the  gondola  drew  nearer  and 
nearer.  And  at  last,  when  its  walls  were  reached,  and  the 
outermost  of  its  untrodden  streets  was  entered,  not  through 
towered  gate  or  guarded  rampart,  but  as  a  deep  inlet  be- 
tween two  rocks  of  coral  in  the  Indian  Sea;  when  first  upon 
the  traveller's  sight  opened  the  long  ranges  of  columned 
palaces, — each  with  its  black  boat  moored  at  the  portal, — 
each  with  its  image  cast  down,  beneath  its  feet,  upon  that 
green  pavement  which  every  breeze  broke  into  new  fan- 
tasies of  rich  tesselation;  when  first,  at  the  extremity  of  the 
bright  vista,  the  shadowy  Rial  to  threw  its  colossal  curve 
slowly  forth  from  behind  the  Palace  of  the  Camerlenghi; 
that  strange  curve,  so  delicate,  so  adamantine,  strong  as 
a  mountain  cavern,  graceful  as  a  bow  just  bent;  when  first, 
before  its  moonlike  circumference  was  all  risen,  the  gon- 
dolier's cry,  "Ah!  Stall,"  struck  sharp  upon  the  ear,  and 
the  prow  turned  aside  under  the  mighty  cornices  that  half 
met  over  the  narrow  canal,  where  the  plash  of  the  water 


THE  CITY  OF  LAGOONS         37 

followed  close  and  loud,  ringing  along  the  marble  by  the 
boat's  side;  and  when  at  last  that  boat  darted  forth  upon 
the  breadth  of  silver  sea,  across  which  the  front  of  the 
Ducal  Palace,  flushed  with  its  sanguine  veins,  looks  to  the 
snowy  dome  of  Our  Lady  of  Salvation,1  it  was  no  marvel 
that  the  mind  should  be  so  deeply  entranced  by  the  vision- 
ary charm  of  a  scene  so  beautiful  and  so  strange,  as  to  forget 
the  darker  truths  of  its  history  and  its  being.  Well  might 
it  seem  that  such  a  city  had  owed  her  existence  rather  to  the 
rod  of  the  enchanter,  than  the  fear  of  the  fugitive;  that 
the  waters  which  encircled  her  had  been  chosen  for  the 
mirror  of  her  state,  rather  than  the  shelter  of  her  naked- 
ness; and  that  all  which  in  nature  was  wild  or  mercilesSj 
— Time  and  Decay,  as  well  as  the  waves  and  tempests, — 
had  been  won  to  adorn  her  instead  of  to  destroy,  and  might 
still  spare,  for  ages  to  come,  that  beauty  which  seemed  to 
have  fixed  for  its  throne  the  sands  of  the  hour-glass  as  well 
as  of  the  sea. 

And  although  the  last  few  eventful  years,  fraught  with 
change  to  the  face  of  the  whole  earth,  have  been  more  fatal 
in  their  influence  on  Venice  than  the  five  hundred  that  pre- 
ceded them;  though  the  noble  landscape  of  approach  to  her 
can  now  be  seen  no  more,  or  seen  only  by  a  glance,  as  the 
engine  slackens  its  rushing  on  the  iron  line;  and  though 
many  of  her  palaces  are  forever  defaced,  and  many  in  dese- 
crated ruins,  there  is  still  so  much  of  magic  in  her  aspect, 
that  the  hurried  traveller,  who  must  leave  her  before  the 
wonder  of  that  first  aspect  has  been  worn  away,  may  still 
"Santa  Maria  della  Salute. 


3  8  VENICE 

be  led  to  forget  the  humility  of  her  origin,  and  to  shut 
his  eyes  to  the  depth  of  her  desolation.  They,  at  least,  are 
little  to  be  envied,  in  whose  hearts  the  great  charities  of 
the  imagination  lie  dead,  and  for  whom  the  fancy  has  no 
power  to  repress  the  importunity  of  painful  impressions,  or 
to  raise  what  is  ignoble,  and  disguise  what  is  discordant, 
in  a  scene  so  rich  in  its  remembrances,  so  surpassing  in  its 
beauty.  But  for  this  work  of  imagination  there  must  be  no 
permission  during  the  task  which  is  before  us.  The  im- 
potent feelings  of  romance,  so  singularly  characteristic  of 
this  century,  may  indeed  gild,  but  never  save  the  remains  of 
those  mightier  ages  to  which  they  are  attached  like  climbing 
flowers;  and  they  must  be  torn  away  from  the  magnificent 
fragments,  if  we  would  see  them  as  they  stood  in  their  own 
strength.  Those  feelings,  always  as  fruitless  as  they  are 
fond,  are  in  Venice  not  only  incapable  of  protecting,  but 
even  of  discerning,  the  objects  to  which  they  ought  to  have 
been  attached.  The  Venice  of  modern  fiction  and  drama  is 
a  thing  of  yesterday,  a  mere  efflorescence  of  decay,  a  stage 
dream  which  the  first  ray  of  daylight  must  dissipate  into 
dust.  No  prisoner,  whose  name  is  worth  remembering, 
or  whose  sorrow  deserved  sympathy,  ever  crossed  that 
"  Bridge  of  Sighs,"  which  is  the  centre  of  the  Byronic 
ideal  of  Venice;  no  great  merchant  of  Venice  ever  saw  that 
Rialto  under  which  the  traveller  now  passes  with  breath- 
less interest:  the  statue  which  Byron  makes  Faliero  address 
as  one  of  his  great  ancestors  was  erected  to  a  soldier  of  fortune 
a  hundred  and  fifty  years  after  Falierp's  death;  and  the 


THE  CITY  OF  LAGOONS         39 

most  conspicuous  parts  of  the  city  have  been  so  entirely 
altered  in  the  course  of  the  last  three  centuries,  that  if 
Henry  Dandolo  or  Francis  Foscari  could  be  summoned 
from  their  tombs,  and  stood  each  on  the  deck  of  his  galley 
at  the  entrance  of  the  Grand  Canal,  that  renowned  en- 
trance, the  painter's  favourite  subject,  the  novelist's  favour- 
ite scene,  where  the  water  first  narrows  by  the  steps  of  the 
Church  of  La  Salute, — the  mighty  Doges  would  not  know 
in  what  spot  of  the  world  they  stood,  would  literally  not 
recognise  one  stone  of  the  great  city,  for  whose  sake,  and 
by  whose  ingratitude,  their  grey  hairs  had  been  brought 
down  with  bitterness  to  the  grave.  The  remains  of  their 
Venice  lie  hidden  behind  the  cumbrous  masses  which  were 
the  delight  of  the  nation  in  its  dotage;  hidden  in  many  a 
grass-grown  court,  and  silent  pathway,  and  lightless  canal, 
where  the  slow  waves  have  sapped  their  foundations  for  five 
hundred  years,  and  must  soon  prevail  over  them  for  ever. 
It  must  be  our  task  to  glean  and  gather  them  forth,  and 
restore  out  of  them  some  faint  image  of  the  lost  city;  more 
gorgeous  a  thousand  fold  than  that  which  now  exists,  yet 
not  created  in  the  day-dream  of  the  prince,  nor  the  osten- 
tation of  the  noble,  but  built  by  iron  hands  and  patient 
hearts,  contending  against  the  adversity  of  nature  and  the 
fury  of  man,  so  that  its  wonderfulness  cannot  be  grasped 
by  the  indolence  of  imagination,  but  only  after  frank  in- 
quiry into  the  true  nature  of  that  wild  and  solitary  scene, 
whose  restless  tides  and  trembling  sands  did  indeed  shelter 
the  birth  of  the  city,  but  long  denied  her  dominion. 


4o  VENICE 

From  the  mouths  of  the  Adige  to  those  of  the  Piave  there 
stretches,  at  a  variable  distance  of  from  three  to  five  miles 
from  the  actual  shore,  a  bank  of  sand,  divided  into  long 
islands  by  narrow  channels  of  sea.  The  space  between  this 
bank  and  the  true  shore  consists  of  the  sedimentary  de- 
posits from  these  and  other  rivers,  a  great  plain  of  calcare- 
ous mud,  covered,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Venice,  by  the 
sea  at  high  water,  to  the  depth  in  most  places  of  a  foot  or 
a  foot  and  a  half,  and  nearly  everywhere  exposed  at  low  tide, 
but  divided  by  an  intricate  network  of  narrow  and  wind- 
ing channels,  from  which  the  sea  never  retires.  In  some 
places,  according  to  the  run  of  the  currents,  the  land  has 
risen  into  marshy  islets,  consolidated,  some  by  art  and  some 
by  time,  into  ground  firm  enough  to  be  built  upon,  or  fruit- 
ful enough  to  be  cultivated;  in  others,  on  the  contrary, 
it  has  not  reached  the  sea  level;  so  that,  at  the  average  low 
water,  shallow  lakelets  glitter  among  its  irregularly  ex- 
posed fields  of  seaweed.  In  the  midst  of  the  largest  of  these, 
increased  in  importance  by  the  confluence  of  several  large 
river  channels  towards  one  of  the  openings  in  the  sea  bank, 
the  city  of  Venice  itself  is  built,  on  a  crowded  cluster  of 
islands;  the  various  plots  of  higher  ground  which  appear 
to  the  north  and  south  of  this  central  cluster,  have  at  dif- 
ferent periods  been  also  thickly  inhabited,  and  now  bear, 
according  to  their  size,  the  remains  of  cities,  villages,  or 
isolated  convents  and  churches,  scattered  among  spaces  of 
open  ground,  partly  waste  and  encumbered  by  ruins,  partly 
under  cultivation  for  the  supply  of  the  metropolis. 


THE  CITY  OF  LAGOONS         41 

The  average  rise  and  fall  of  the  tides  is  about  three  feet 
(varying  considerably  with  the  seasons)  ;  but  this  fall,  on 
so  flat  a  shore,  is  enough  to  cause  continual  movement  in 
the  waters,  and  in  the  main  canals  to  produce  a  reflux  which 
frequently  runs  like  a  mill-stream.  At  high  water  no  land 
is  visible  for  many  miles  to  the  north  or  south  of  Venice, 
except  in  the  form  of  small  islands  crowned  with  towers 
or  gleaming  with  villages:  there  is  a  channel,  some  three 
miles  wide,  between  the  city  and  the  mainland,  and  some 
mile  and  a  half  wide  between  it  and  the  sandy  breakwater 
called  the  Lido,  which  divides  the  lagoon  from  the  Adriatic, 
but  which  is  so  low  as  hardly  to  disturb  the  impression  of 
the  city's  having  been  built  in  the  midst  of  the  ocean, 
although  the  secret  of  its  true  position  is  partly,  yet  not 
painfully,  betrayed  by  the  clusters  of  piles  set  to  mark  the 
deep-water  channels,  which  undulate  far  away  in  spotty 
chains  like  the  studded  backs  of  huge  sea-snakes,  and  by  the 
quick  glittering  of  the  crisped  and  crowded  waves  that 
flicker  and  dance  before  the  strong  winds  upon  the  unlifted 
level  of  the  shallow  sea.  But  the  scene  is  widely  different 
at  low  tide.  A  fall  of  eighteen  or  twenty  inches  is  enough 
to  show  ground  over  the  greater  part  of  the  lagoon;  and  at 
the  complete  ebb  the  city  is  seen  standing  in  the  midst  of 
a  dark  plain  of  seaweed,  of  gloomy  green,  except  only  where 
the  larger  branches  of  the  Brenta  and  its  associated  streams 
converge  towards  the  port  of  the  Lido.  Through  this  salt 
and  sombre  plain  the  gondola  and  the  fishing-boat  advance 
by  tortuous  channels,  seldom  more  than  four  or  five  feet 


42  VENICE 

deep,  and  often  so  choked  with  slime  that  the  heavier  keels 
furrow  the  bottom  till  their  crossing  tracks  are  seen  through 
the  clear  sea  water  like  the  ruts  upon  a  wintry  road,  and 
the  oar  leaves  blue  gashes  upon  the  ground  at  every  stroke, 
or  is  entangled  among  the  thick  weed  that  fringes  the  banks 
with  the  weight  of  its  sullen  waves,  leaning  to  and  fro  upon 
the  uncertain  sway  of  the  exhausted  tide.  The  scene  is 
often  profoundly  oppressive,  even  at  this  day,  when  every 
plot  of  higher  ground  bears  some  fragment  of  fair  build- 
ing :  but,  in  order  to  know  what  it  was  once,  let  the  traveller 
follow  in  his  boat  at  evening  the  windings  of  some  unfre- 
quented channel  far  into  the  midst  of  the  melancholy  plain; 
let  him  remove,  in  his  imagination,  the  brightness  of  the 
great  city  that  still  extends  itself  in  the  distance,  and  the 
walls  and  towers  from  the  islands  that  are  near;  and  so  wait, 
until  the  bright  investiture  and  sweet  warmth  of  the  sunset 
are  withdrawn  from  the  waters,  and  the  black  desert  of 
their  shore  lives  in  its  nakedness  beneath  the  night,  pathless, 
comfortless,  infirm,  lost  in  dark  languor  and  fearful  silence, 
except  where  the  salt  rivulets  plash  into  the  tideless  pools, 
or  the  sea-birds  flit  from  their  margins  with  a  questioning 
cry;  and  he  will  be  enabled  to  enter  in  some  sort  into  the 
horror  of  the  heart  with  which  this  solitude  was  anciently 
chosen  by  man  for  his  habitation.  They  little  thought, 
who  first  drove  the  stakes  into  the  mud,  and  strewed  the 
ocean  reeds  for  their  rest,  that  their  children  were  to  be 
the  princes  of  that  ocean,  and  their  palaces  its  pride;  and 
yet,  in  the  great  natural  laws  that  rule  that  sorrowful 


THE  CITY  OF  LAGOONS         43 

wilderness,  let  it  be  remembered  what  strange  preparation 
had  been  made  for  the  things  which  no  human  imagination 
could  have  foretold,  and  how  the  whole  existence  and  for- 
tune of  the  Venetian  nation  were  anticipated  or  compelled, 
by  the  setting  of  those  bars  and  doors  to  the  rivers  and  the 
sea.  Had  deeper  currents  divided  their  islands,  hostile 
navies  would  again  and  again  have  reduced  the  rising  city 
into  servitude;  had  stronger  surges  beaten  their  shores,  all 
the  riches  and  refinement  of  the  Venetian  architecture 
must  have  been  exchanged  for  the  walls  and  bulwarks  of 
an  ordinary  sea-port.  Had  there  been  no  tide,  as  in  other 
parts  of  the  Mediterranean,  the  narrow  canals  of  the  city 
would  have  become  noisome,  and  the  marsh  in  which  it  was 
built  pestiferous.  Had  the  tide  been  only  a  foot  or  eighteen 
inches  higher  in  its  rise,  the  water-access  to  the  doors  of  the 
palaces  would  have  been  impossible;  even  as  it  is,  there  is 
sometimes  a  little  difficulty,  at  the  ebb,  in  landing  without 
setting  foot  upon  the  lower  and  slippery  steps:  and  the 
highest  tides  sometimes  enter  the  courtyards,  and  overflow 
the  entrance  halls.  Eighteen  inches  more  of  difference  be- 
tween the  level  of  the  flood  and  ebb  would  have  rendered 
the  doorsteps  of  every  palace,  at  low  water,  a  treacherous 
•  mass  of  weeds  and  limpets,  and  the  entire  system  of  water- 
carriage  for  the  higher  classes,  in  their  easy  and  daily  inter- 
course, must  have  been  done  away  with.  The  streets  of 
the  city  \vould  have  been  widened,  its  network  of  canals 
filled  up,  and  all  the  peculiar  character  of  the  place  and  the 
people  destroyed 


44  VENICE 

The  reader  may  perhaps  have  felt  some  pain  in  the 
contrast  between  this  faithful  view  of  the  site  of  the 
Venetian  Throne,  and  the  romantic  conception  of  it  which 
we  ordinarily  form ;  but  this  pain,  if  he  have  felt  it,  ought 
to  be  more  than  counterbalanced  by  the  value  of  the 
instance  thus  afforded  to  us  at  once  of  the  inscrutableness 
and  the  wisdom  of  the  ways  of  God.  If,  two  thousand 
years  ago,  we  had  been  permitted  to  watch  the  slow  settling 
of  the  slime  of  those  turbid  rivers  into  the  polluted  sea, 
and  the  gaining  upon  its  deep  and  fresh  waters  of  the  life- 
less, impassable,  unvoyageable  plain,  how  little  could  we 
have  understood  the  purpose  with  which  those  islands  were 
shaped  out  of  the  void,  and  the  torpid  waters  enclosed  with 
their  desolate  walls  of  sand!  How  little  could  we  have 
known,  any  more  than  of  what  now  seems  to  us  most  dis- 
tressful, dark,  and  objectless,  the  glorious  aim  which  was 
then  in  the  mind  of  Him  in  whose  hand  are  all  the  corners 
of  the  earth!  how  little  imagined  that  in  the  laws  which 
were  stretching  forth  the  gloomy  margins  of  those  fruit- 
less banks,  and  feeding  the  bitter  grass  among  their  shallows, 
there  was  indeed  a  preparation,  and  the  only  preparation 
possible,  for  the  founding  of  a  city  which  was  to  be  set  like 
a  golden  clasp  on  the  girdle  of  the  earth,  to  write  her  his- 
tory on  the  white  scrolls  of  the  sea-surges,  and  to  word  it 
in  their  thunder,  and  to  gather  and  give  forth,  in  world- 
wide pulsation,  the  glory  of  the  West  and  of  the  East,  from 
the  burning  heart  of  her  Fortitude  and  Splendour. 


THE  LAGOONS 

HORATIO  F.  BROWN 

THE  lagoons  of  Venice  are  a  large  basin,  covering 
an  area  of  one  hundred  and  eighty-four  square 
miles,  and  composed  of  shoal  banks,  intersected 
in  all  directions  by  deep  channels.  The  form  of  the  lagoons, 
roughly  speaking,  is  that  of  a  bent  bow,  a  segment  of  a 
circle  and  the  line  that  cuts  it.  The  curved  line  follows 
the  shore  of  the  mainland;  the  straight  line  is  composed  of 
a  number  of  long  narrow  islands,  or  lid'i,  which  close  the 
lagoons  on  the  sea  side,  and  shut  out  the  Adriatic.  It  is 
these  lidi,  these  sandy  islands  which  are  the  important  fact 
in  the  structure  of  the  lagoons;  without  them  the  lagoons 
would  not  exist,  and  their  surface  would  simply  be  added 
to  the  sea,  which,  in  that  case,  would  find  its  real  shore 
not,  as  at  present,  on  the  outer  side  of  these  islands,  but 
upon  the  mainland  itself. 

The  lagoons  are  the  result  of  overflowing  by  the  sea 
and  by  the  rivers  which  used  to  discharge  their  waters  into 
them.  But  partly  to  avoid  the  danger  from  spring  and 
autumn  floods,  partly  on  account  of  the  malaria  produced 
by  the  mingling  of  salt  water  and  fresh,  the  Sile  and  Piave 
were  connected  at  their  mouths,  and  now  empty  themselves 
directly  into  the  sea.  The  Brenta  alone  sends  very  con- 
siderable volume  of  fresh  water  into  the  lagoon.  It  is  from 
45 


46  VENICE 

the  Adriatic  that  these  waters  come  which  twice  a  day  flood 
all  the  shallows  of  this  basin,  and  sweep  through  the  canals 
of  Venice,  cleansing  the  water  streets,  and  performing  the 
task  of  "  pure  ablution,"  round  her  ancient  walls. 

The  lidi  are  not  only  intimately  connected  with  the  origin 
and  general  structure  of  the  lagoons,  but  they  are  now  the 
bulwark  of  Venice  against  the  sea.  That  narrow  strip  of 
sandy  dune,  never  more  than  half  a  mile  in  width,  alone 
stands  between  Venice  and  the  Adriatic,  which  would  other- 
wise break  in  upon  the  lagoons  and  sweep  the  city  down. 
When  the  sirocco  is  thundering  on  the  sands  of  the  Lido, 
and  its  boom  is  borne  high  in  the  air,  one  cannot  help 
picturing  the  ruin  that  would  follow  should  the  slender 
barrier  of  sand  give  way  beneath  the  battery  of  the  stormy 
sea.  Once  or  twice  the  sea  has  broken  through  this  frail 
defence,  and  threatened  the  city;  and  almost  the  last  im- 
portant work  undertaken  by  the  Republic  was  the  fortifica- 
tion of  the  lidi,  at  their  weakest  points  by  the  Murazzi, 
great  sea-walls,  some  formed  by  rough  blocks  of  Istrian 
stone  piled  anyhow  along  the  shore,  others  built  up  of 
solid  and  cemented  masonry. 

The  lagoon  of  Venice  is  not  a  semi-stagnant  marsh,  but  a 
water  basin  where  the  activity  of  the  currents  and  tides  is  un- 
ceasing. Nor  is  the  lagoon,  in  spite  of  its  apparent  unity, 
to  be  considered  as  one  large  tidal  lake.  It  is,  in  fact,  a 
complex  of  four  water  systems,  quite  distinct  from  one 
another,  each  with  its  main  channels  and  tributary  streams. 

It  is  the  lidi  that  determine  this  peculiar  internal  struc- 


THE  LAGOONS  4/ 

ture  of  the  lagoon  basin,  which  distinguishes  it  from  other 
bodies  of  water,  and  makes  it  neither  marsh  nor  lake  nor  sea, 
but  something  different  from  any  of  these.  In  the  line  of 
the  lidi  there  are  four  breaches  or  ports,  which  give  passage 
to  the  water  between  the  lagoon  and  the  open  sea;  they  are 
the  ports  of  Chioggia,  Malamocco,  Lido,  and  Tre  Porti. 
There  used  to  be  a  fifth,  the  port  of  Sant'  Erasmo,  but  that 
was  closed  in  1474,  in  order  to  increase  the  volume  of  water 
at  the  Lido  port.  Only  a  very  small  body  of  water  now 
passes  through  its  mouth;  and  for  all  purposes  of  under- 
standing the  internal  economy  of  the  lagoons,  we  have  to 
deal  with  the  four  ports  above  mentioned.  It  is  through 
these  four  mouths  that  the  sea  comes  flooding  in  upon  the 
lagoons  at  the  flow,  and  passes  out  at  the  ebb ;  and  it  is  upon 
these  ports  that  the  whole  system  of  currents  and  tides, 
which  vivify  the  lagoons,  is  dependent. 

The  surface  of  the  lagoons  is  traversed  by  five  main  chan- 
nels, or  water  highways;  and  all  of  them  centre  in  Venice. 
The  course  of  these  channels  is  marked  by  groups  of  posts, 
driven  into  the  mud  at  regular  intervals.  But  besides  these 
principal  thoroughfares  there  is  a  network  of  smaller  canals, 
many  of  them  ending  nowhere,  lost  in  the  shoals,  undis- 
tinguished by  any  sign-posts  and  known  only  to  fishermen, 
smugglers,  and  those  who  have  the  practice  of  the  lagoons. 
The  five  main  channels  are — first,  that  of  the  Lido,  familiar 
to  every  one  who  knows  Venice;  it  conducts  to  the  sea  by 
way  of  San  Nicoletto  and  Sant'  Andrea.  This  was  the 
great  port  of  the  Venetian  Republic.  By  the  Lido  mouth 


48  VENICE 

her  galleys  sailed  to  war;  her  argosies  came  laden  home,  and, 
every  festival  of  the  Ascension,  the  Doge  in  the  Bucentoro 
passed  out  to  wed  the  Adriatic.  The  great  eastern  canal 
leads  by  Murano,  Burano,  Mazzorbo,  and  Torcello  to  the 
mainland  near  Altino.  The  northern  channel,  between 
Mestre  and  Venice,  was  once  the  usual  approach  to  the  sea- 
city  before  the  railway  bridge  was  built.  A  fourth  canal  leads 
to  Fusina,  also  on  the  mainland,  where  the  Brenta,  or  rather 
part  of  the  Brenta,  flows  into  the  lagoon.  And  last,  and 
most  important  of  all,  there  is  the  canal  to  Malamocco  and 
Chioggia,  by  which  all  the  large  shipping  reaches  Venice, 
now  that  the  older  port  of  the  Lido  has  been  allowed  to  silt 
up.  Any  one  who  wishes  to  see  the  lagoons  might  do  worse 
than  take  these  five  canals  in  turn.  From  each  of  them  he 
would  obtain  a  different  view  of  Venice,  a  fresh  idea  of  the 
singular  foundations  from  which  the  city  rises,  a  varied 
composition  of  campanili  and  domes  against  the  constant 
background  of  sky  and  Alps. 

There  are  few  great  surfaces  of  water  which  are  as  sensi- 
tive as  the  lagoons  of  Venice.  And  this  sensitiveness  is  the 
cause  of  constant  change,  change  which  surprises  even  those 
who  know  the  lagoons  best.  The  picturesque  charm  of  the 
lagoon  resides  in  its  two  main  features — the  water  and  sky; 
and  the  secret  of  their  fascination  is  their  endless  variety 
secured  by  the  vastness  of  the  space  which  they  include.  The 
city  itself  and  its  attendant  isles  are  always  present,  like  the 
gems  that  grace  the  setting ;  but  the  setting  changes  infinitely, 
The  islands  and  the  stationary  Alps  that  bound  the  vision, 


THE  LAGOONS  49 

alone  remain  immovable;  all  else  in  the  landscape  of  the 
lagoons  is  shifting  continually. 

In  the  water  there  is  the  perpetual  flux  and  reflux  of  the 
tides  in  endless  operation;  now  revealing  large  tracts  of 
green  or  brown  upon  the  shoals,  now  cloaking  all  beneath 
one  wide  unbroken  mantle  of  grey  sea.  The  colour  of  the 
water  surface  itself  is  continually  undergoing  a  prismatic 
change.  The  prevailing  tone  is  grey,  but  grey  of  every  hue 
— grey  haze  suffused  by  the  low  winter  sun,  blue  grey,  grey 
warmed  with  yellow  or  with  pink,  soft  and  delicious,  the 
result  of  sirocco  grey  that  is  hard  and  cold  under  the  sun 
or  pure  and  silvery  white  beneath  the  moon.  Grey  is  the 
dominant  tone  of  colour,  but  at  sunset  and  sunrise,  there  are 
the  more  gorgeous  hues  of  rose  and  crimson,  of  orange,  of 
purple,  and  of  bronze.  It  would  be  impossible  to  discover 
any  place  where  the  pageantry  of  colour  is  more  certain  and 
more  varied  than  it  is  upon  the  lagoons. 

Not  only  on  the  water  surface  is  there  manifold  change, 
but  the  same  is  happening  hourly  in  the  water  body ;  the  one 
is  felt  in  the  wide  sweep  of  vision  over  the  lagoon  level,  the 
other  in  the  minute  section  which  lies  below  our  boat.  These 
changes  of  tone  in  the  water  body  depend  upon  action  of 
wind,  tide,  and  weather.  If  the  sirocco  has  stirred  the  sands 
on  the  Lido,  then  the  incoming  tide  will  be  opaquely  green 
and  mottled  here  and  there  with  yellow  stains  such  as  are 
sometimes  seen  in  jade;  or  if  the  sea  be  calm,  the  flowing 
tide  will  sweep  through  the  canals  clear  and  pale  as  aqua- 
marine, or  clear  and  dark  as  the  rare  stone,  the  tourmaline. 


50  VENICE 

The  prevailing  tone  upon  the  water  surface  is  grey,  the  pre- 
vailing tone  in  the  water  body  is  green.  And  if  that  green 
be  transparent,  the  forestry  of  water-weeds  which  clothe 
the  bed  of  the  lagoon,  with  all  its  finny  denizens,  the  waver- 
ing of  the  seaweed  tips  beneath  the  current,  the  variety  of 
colour  upon  the  long  streamers,  make  the  few  square  feet 
below  the  boat  as  beautiful  to  contemplate  as  all  the 
miles  of  water  surface  that  stretch  away  on  every  side. 

But  the  sky,  even  more  than  the  water,  is  the  glory  of  the 
Venetian  lagoon.  Nowhere,  except  at  sea,  could  the  eye 
master  so  vast  an  arc.  And  thus  there  is  laid  open  to  the 
contemplation  nature  busied  in  various  occupations,  for  what 
is  going  on  in  the  far  east  stands  apart  from  that  which 
engages  wind  and  sunshine  in  the  west;  and  sea  and  moun- 
tains, to  the  south  and  north,  have  different  tasks  allotted 
them.  The  heavens  display  the  manifold  workmanship  of 
nature  in  unceasing  activity.  The  clouds,  moulded  at  their 
borders  by  the  opposing  atmosphere,  mass  their  domes  and 
pinnacles  and  mountainous  buttresses  under  the  compulsion 
of  some  internal  force  desiring  to  expand,  until  their  edges 
are  frayed  and  torn,  and  the  storm-clouds  burst  and  sweep 
across  the  sky.  The  premonition  of  the  coming  wind  is 
given  by  the  lifted  clouds  upon  the  far  horizon,  the  long 
straight  line  below,  the  billowing  vanguard  above,  as  the 
whole  cloud-wall  is  buoyed  and  driven  before  the  gale. 
There  are  quiet  skies,  with  fields  of  pearly  grey  and  cirrus 
flecked  above  the  tranquil  misty  veils  that  part  and  leave 
interspaces  of  pure  blue.  There  are  the  thunder-clouds  that 


THE  LAGOONS  51 

hang  upon  the  hills  and  cool  and  melt  away  as  night  wears 
on.  Above  all  there  is  the  splendour  of  Venetian  sunsets,  and 
more  especially  the  stormy  ones,  outflaming  any  painters 
canvas.  The  ominous  masses  of  dun  cloud,  blown  from  the 
eastward;  the  rainbow  that  rises  and  spans  the  city,  high 
and  brilliant  against  sombre  clouds  urged  so  violently  for- 
ward by  the  wind  that  their  foremost  battalions  curve  like 
the  arc  of  a  bow,  and  are  kindled  to  tawny  purple  by  the 
setting  sun.  Then  the  bursting  of  the  storm ;  the  riving  of 
the  cloud  strata  revealing  behind  them  steel-blue  layers,  and 
further  still  behind,  a  hand's  breadth  of  serene  blue  sky. 
And  all  the  while  the  sun  is  going  down,  to  westward  in 
heavens  that  are  calm  and  suffused  with  limpid  golden 
light,  unheeding  of  the  tempest  that  sweeps  towards  the  hills. 
These  operations  of  nature  are  so  immense  and  so  aloof, 
that  personal  human  emotion  seems  to  fall  away  before  them, 
retiring  to  the  vanishing  point,  and  the  spirit  is  left  naked  and 
alone,  facing  the  radical  forces  of  the  universe. 


THE  GONDOLA 

THEOPHILE  GAUTIER 

THE  gondola  has  suffered  much  abuse  in  comic 
opera,  novels  and  romances.  That  is  no  reason 
why  it  should  not  be  better  known.  We  will 
give  a  detailed  description  of  it.  The  gondola  is  a  natural 
production  of  Venice,  an  animated  being  with  a  special  and 
local  life,  a  kind  of  fish  that  can  exist  only  in  the  water  of  a 
canal.  The  lagoon  and  the  gondola  are  inseparable,  and  one 
is  the  complement  of  the  other.  Without  the  gondola, 
Venice  would  be  impossible.  The  city  is  a  madrepore,  the 
mollusc  of  which  is  the  gondola.  It  alone  can  wind  in  and 
out  among  the  inextricable  network  and  capillary  system  of 
the  aquatic  streets. 

The  narrow  and  long  gondola,  raised  at  both  ends,  and 
drawing  little  water,  has  the  form  of  a  skate.  Its  prow  is 
armed  with  a  flat  and  polished  piece  of  iron  which  vaguely 
recalls  the  curved  neck  of  a  swan,  or  rather  the  neck  of  a 
violin  with  its  pegs.  Six  teeth,  the  interstices  of  which  are 
sometimes  filled  with  pierced  work,  contribute  to  this  re- 
semblance. This  piece  of  iron  serves  for  decoration,  for 
defense  and  for  counterpoise,  the  craft  being  more  heavily 
weighted  behind.  On  the  bulwark  of  the  gondola,  close  to 
the  prow  and  the  stern,  are  fixed  two  pieces  of  wood,  curved 
like  ox-horns,  in  which  the  gondolier  rests  his  oar  while  he 
52 


THE  GONDOLA  53 

stands  on  a  little  platform  with  his  heel  wedged  in  a  little 
socket.  The  whole  visible  gondola  is  coated  with  tar,  or 
painted  black.  A  more  or  less  rich  carpet  covers  the  bottom. 
In  the  centre,  the  cabin  is  placed,  the  felce,  which  is  easily 
removed  if  we  want  to  substitute  an  awning,  a  modern 
degeneracy  at  which  every  good  Venetian  groans.  The  felce 
is  entirely  made  of  black  cloth  and  furnished  with  two  soft 
cushions  covered  with  morocco  of  the  same  hue,  back  to 
back;  moreover,  there  are  two  bracket  seats  at  the  sides 
so  that  it  will  accommodate  four.  On  each  lateral  face 
two  windows  are  pierced.  These  are  usually  left  open,  but 
may  be  closed  in  three  ways:  first,  by  a  bevelled  square 
of  Venetian  glass,  or  a  frame  with  flowers  cut  in  the 
crystal ;  secondly,  by  a  Venetian  slat  blind,  so  as  to  see  with- 
out being  seen ;  and  thirdly,  by  a  cloth  shade,  over  which,  for 
the  sake  of  more  mystery,  one  can  lower  the  outside  covering 
of  the  felce.  These  different  systems  of  blind  slide  in  a 
transverse  groove.  The  door,  by  which  we  enter  backwards, 
since  it  would  be  difficult  to  turn  around  in  this  narrow 
space,  has  simply  a  window  and  a  panel.  The  wooden  por- 
tion is  carved  with  more  or  less  elegance  according  to  the 
wealth  of  the  owner,  or  the  taste  of  the  gondolier.  On  the 
left  doorcase  shines  a  copper  shield  surmounted  by  a  crown. 
Here  one  has  one's  arms  or  monogram  engraved.  Above  it 
a  little  frame  with  a  glass  contains  the  image  for  which 
the  host  or  the  gondolier  cherishes  a  special  devotion:  the 
Holy  Virgin,  St.  Mark,  St.  Theodore,  or  St.  George. 

It  is  on  that  side  also  that  the  lantern  is  fixed,  a  custom 


54  VENICE 

that  is  somewhat  falling  into  disuse,  for  many  gondolas  are 
navigated  without  having  this  star  on  their  brow.  Because 
of  the  coat-of-arms,  the  saint  and  the  lantern,  the  left  is  the 
place  of  honour;  it  is  there  that  women,  and  aged  or  impor- 
tant persons  sit.  At  the  back,  a  movable  panel  enables  one 
to  speak  to  the  gondolier  posted  on  the  stern,  the  only  one 
who  really  manages  the  boat,  his  paddle  being  an  oar  and  a 
rudder  at  the  same  time.  Two  cords  of  silk  with  two 
handles  help  you  to  rise  when  you  want  to  go  out,  for  the 
seats  are  very  low.  The  cloth  of  the  felce  is  embellished  on 
the  outside  by  tufts  of  silk  similar  to  those  of  priests'  hoods, 
and  when  we  want  to  shut  ourselves  up  completely,  it  falls 
over  the  back  of  the  cabin  like  too  long  a  pall  over  a 
coffin.  To  conclude  the  description,  let  us  say  that  on  the 
inside  of  the  bulwarks  a  sort  of  arabesque  in  white  is  traced 
upon  the  black  ground  of  the  wood.  All  this  has  not  a  great 
air  of  gaiety;  and  yet,  if  we  may  believe  Lord  Byron's 
Eeppo,  as  amusing  scenes  take  place  in  these  black  gondolas 
as  in  funeral  coaches.  Madame  Malibran,  who  did  not 
like  to  go  into  these  little  catafalques,  unsuccessfully  tried 
to  get  their  hue  altered.  This  tint,  which  strikes  us  as 
lugubrious,  does  not  seem  so  to  the  Venetians,  who  are  ac- 
customed to  black  by  the  sumptuary  edicts  of  the  ancient 
republic,  and  among  whom  the  water  hearses,  mutes  and 
shrouds  are  red. 


THE  OUTER  RIM 

WILLIAM  SHARP 

NO  one  to  whom  Venice  means  something  more 
than  a  merely  unique  city  because  of  its  water- 
ways, a  place  of  resort  because  to  go  there  is  one 
of  the  things  to  do,  could  spend  any  length  of  time  within 
its  magic  influence  without  visiting,  or  at  least  endeavouring 
to  visit,  two  places  that  once  rivalled  the  "  sea-queen  "  herself 
in  stir  of  life  and  natural  beauty.  One  of  these  is  Chioggia, 
many  miles  to  the  south,  past  the  islands  of  S.  Lazzaro  and  S. 
Spirito,  past  La  Grazia  and  Poveglia,  past  Malamocco  and 
low-lying  Pelestrina,  past  those  three  miles  of  great  walls  of 
Istrain  stone,  those  murazzi  which,  like  the  dykes  of  Holland, 
offer  an  unvanquished  front  to  the  tidal  rush  and  ceaseless 
wash  of  the  sea.  Venice  is  discrowned,  if  not  of  all  her 
beauty,  at  least  of  her  ancient  power,  her  long-surviving 
splendour;  but  Chioggia  is  more  than  discrowned — she  is 
humbled  like  a  slave  that  can  never  again  escape  from  the 
slough  of  long  degradation.  The  fate  of  Tyre  is  better:  no 
longer  to  see  the  galleys  of  the  East  and  the  Phoenician  ships 
pass  by  in  disdain,  but  to  have  perished  and  be  as  utterly 
unknown  as  the  golden  Ophir  of  still  more  ancient  days. 
Visiting  Chioggia,  one  sees  a  deserted  and  decayed  town,  a 
listless  fisherfolk,  indolent  women  who  have  yet,  here  and 
there,  something  of  that  typical  Venetian  beauty  beloved  of 
55 


56  VENICE 

Titian  and  Paul  Veronese ;  and  one  cannot  well  refrain  from 
thinking  that  that  terrible  six  months'  duel,  that  life-and- 
death  struggle  between  the  Republics  of  St.  George  and  St. 
Mark,  which  took  place  five  hundred  years  ago,  exhausted 
for  ever  the  vital  energy  of  this  southern  Venice.  The  con- 
quering foot  of  Daria,  and  the  relentless  grip  of  Pisani,  must 
between  them  have  left  Chioggia  with  small  remnant  of  its 
pristine  power. 

But  six  miles  north  of  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark,  amid  shallow 
and  sluggish  lagoons,  lies  the  dead  body  of  a  city  greater 
than  Chioggia, — Torcello,  the  "  mother  of  Venice." 
Scarcely,  indeed,  can  it  be  said  that  even  the  dead  body  of 
what  was  once  a  populous  town  still  rests  here;  it  is  as 
though  only  a  few  bleached  bones  yet  lay  exposed  to  the 
scorching  sun  of  summer,  to  the  salt  and  bitter  sea-winds  of 
winter,  to  the  miasmic  mists  of  desolate  autumn.  Habita- 
tions there  are  none:  only  the  deserted  fanes  of  Santa  Fosca 
and  the  Duomo,  a  lifeless  Palazzo  Pubblico,  a  lonely  and 
silent  Campanile.  In  the  words  of  Ruskin,  these  "  lie  like  a 
little  company  of  ships  becalmed  on  a  far-away  sea." 

The  day  was  an  exceptionally  bright  one,  warm,  but  not 
oppressive,  with  a  cool  wind  that  blew  joyously  without  be- 
coming too  fresh  for  pleasant  sailing  in  the  open  lagoons  to 
the  north ;  then  we  had  gone  by  a  longer  way  for  the  sake  of 
the  pleasure  of  such  voyaging — eastward  past  S.  Maria  della 
Salute,  and  close  under  the  shadows  of  the  great  church 
upon  the  Isola  di  S.  Giorgio  Maggiore,  with  the  busy  Riva 
degli  Schiavoni  on  our  left  reaching  on  to  the  green  and 


THE  OUTER  RIM  57 

practically  deserted  promontory  of  the  Public  Gardens. 
Then  rounding  the  Punta  della  Motta,  our  gondolier  rowed 
us  swiftly  northward  amid  the  unique  loveliness  of  the 
Venetian  lagoons. 

A  soft  sirocco  blew,  not  indeed  with  that  virulent  breath 
from  the  south-east,  which  the  term  is  apt  to  suggest,  but  still 
with  such  enervating  mildness  as  to  determine  us  to  reach  our 
destination  by  the  shortest  way  possible.  We  soon  found 
ourselves  gliding  past  the  Campo  S.  Angelo,  then  into  the 
Grand  Canal  once  more  by  the  timeworn  Palazzo  Corner 
Spinelli,  past  the  Palazzi  Grimani,  Bembo,  and  Manin, 
under  the  Rialto,  and  so  out  again  into  the  open — after 
gliding  through  many  narrow  canals,  and  rounding  in  some 
magic  way  seemingly  impossible  corners — out  beyond  the 
Fondamenta  Nuova,  with  the  great  square  opening  of  the 
Lucca  della  Misericordia  on  our  left.  On  the  right  we  leave 
behind  us  a  square  white  house,  as  lovely  in  appearance,  and 
as  deserted  in  actual  fact,  as  though  it  stood  in  the  midst  of 
the  rank  swamps  of  the  Laguna  Morta  to  the  south  of  Fusina. 
This  is  the  Casa  degli  Spirit!,  a  place  of  ghostly  repute,  where 
no  Italian  would  rest  overnight  on  any  consideration.  For 
in  this  "  House  of  Spirits,"  it  was  once  the  custom  to  leave 
the  coffined  dead  over  night,  interment  taking  place  next  day 
at  the  neighbouring  island  of  San  Michele.  No  wonder 
this  half-way  house  between  the  living  and  the  dead  should 
remain  uninhabited,  retaining  as  it  does  in  the  imagination 
of  the  Venetians  an  unpleasant  savour  of  the  supernatural. 

As  we  were  swiftly  urged  upon  our  way,  had  it  not  been 


5  8  VENICE 

for  the  stalwart  figure  of  Luigi  in  the  forepart  of  the  gon- 
dola, we  might  have  imagined  we  were  drifting  through  the 
Sea  of  the  Magic  Isles,  that  all  before  us  was  as  unreal  as 
the  mirage  that  with  its  illusive  beauty  haunts  at  times  the 
weary  gaze  upon  inland  seas  of  sand.  More  fair,  indeed, 
than  any  mirage  was  the  scene  that  we  beheld ;  yet  wonder- 
fully mirage-like  was  it  by  reason  of  the  palpitating  haze 
that  dwelt  like  the  visible  breath  of  the  sirocco  upon  main- 
land, isle  and  lagoon. 

Far  to  the  right  some  thickly  clustered  and  windless  trees 
rose  from  the  quivering  sea-line,  or  rather  seemed  to  hover 
just  above  the  lagoon, — the  acacias,  namely,  in  whose 
shadowy  mist  the  Fort  of  S.  Nicolo  guards  the  "  Gates  of 
the  Lido."  Northwest  of  this  dimly  defined  island-wood  we 
espied  Sant'  Elena  and  San  Michele;  in  the  lee  of  the 
latter  three  funeral  gondolas  skirting  the  high  wall  that  pro- 
tects the  graves  from  the  imperative  tides;  while  before  us 
lay  Murano,  a  denser  and  darker  mist  above  it  from  the 
furnaces  of  the  glass  manufactories,  for  which  it  is  so  famous. 
Northwestward  we  looked  towards  Mestre,  and  south- 
ward from  thence  along  the  Laguna  Morta  towards  Fusina 
— a  long  line  of  shadowy  trees  apparently  rising  from  the 
sea,  with  spaces  here  and  there  between  as  though  a  slow 
tide  were  imperceptibly  rising  and  flooding  a  long  strip  of 
land,  at  intervals  dinted  with  hollows  already  washed  over 
by  the  grey-green  water.  The  silvery  sirocco  mist  hid  from 
us  the  shapes  of  Alps  to  the  north,  or  Euganeans  to  the  west. 
We  could  just  descry,  indeed,  that  part  of  the  Laguna 


THE  OUTER  RIM  59 

Morta  which  stretches  from  beneath  the  long  railway-bridge 
towards  Fusina — those  low  banks  of  slimy  ooze  or  mud, 
which  collectively  are  called  the  "  Dead  Lagoon,"  a  strange 
and  desolate  region  haunted  only  by  the  sea-mew,  the  wild 
snipe,  and  the  bittern,  the  newt  that  loves  the  slimy  ooze, 
and  the  sea-adder  amongst  the  rank  grasses  that  rise  from  the 
shallow  brackish  water  clarified  by  no  urgent  tide. 

As  we  left  Murano  behind  us,  and  glided  along  the  grey- 
green  of  the  open  lagoon  between  it  and  Burano,  still  more 
did  the  fancy  grow  upon  us  that  we  were  adrift  upon  dream- 
land waters,  and  it  was  difficult  to  tell,  looking  around  and 
beyond  us,  where  the  sea-line  and  sky-line  met,  for  the 
breath  of  the  sirocco  made  sea  and  sky,  islands  and  shadowy 
trees  and  dim  mainland  outlines  alike  unsubstantial.  That 
a  change  was  more  or  less  imminent,  even  if  we  had  not 
heard  Luigi  draw  Francesco's  attention  to  the  fact,  we  both 
ere  long  perceived,  for  at  frequent  intervals  a  sudden  but 
transitory  shimmer  quivered  in  the  misty  atmosphere  to  the 
north,  seemingly,  as  though  behind  a  veil  of  silvery  gauze 
a  current  of  air  were  passing  by.  Now  and  again  the 
shrouded  sun  seemed  to  gather  fresh  power,  and  to  lighten 
for  a  few  minutes  with  its  dimly  diffused  gleams  the  strange 
scene,  wholly  aerial  in  appearance  that  met  our  gaze.  It  was 
in  some  such  vivifying  interval  as  this  that  we  passed  the 
islands  of  Burano  and  Mazzorbo,  and  saw  before  us  the 
dreary  and  desolate  shores  of  Torcello.  Looking  backward 
we  saw  the  lagoons  shining  with  a  dull  metallic  glitter,  and 
the  intense  heat  brooding  in  haze  upon  distant  Venice,  and, 


60  VENICE 

like  a  mirage  within  a  mirage,  the  islanded  coast-line  of  the 
Laguna  Morta  from  Mestre  to  Fusina  shining  dimly  blue 
above  the  intensely  bright  but  sparkless  silver  of  the  inflowing 
tide. 

When  our  gondola  glided  alongside  of  the  wave-worn  and 
irregular  stones  that  form  the  pier,  and  we  stepped  from  it  on 
to  the  salt  grasses  that  lead  up  to  the  so-called  piazza.,  we 
again  realised  to  the  full  the  absoluteness  of  the  sense  of 
desolation.  When  we  had  last  been  at  Torcello,  there  had 
been  some  cattle  in  the  green  meadow  beyond  the  Duomo, 
tended  by  a  dark-haired  shepherd  youth,  who  seemed  some- 
thing between  a  water-god,  a  faun,  and  a  young  David ;  but 
now  no  living  thing  met  our  gaze,  save  a  sea-bird  that 
screamed  harshly  as  it  rose  from  a  reedy  morass  and  sailed 
round  and  round  the  lonely  square  tower  of  the  Campanile. 
The  soft  lapping  of  the  water  against  the  gondola  and  faint 
rustle  of  the  tide  against  the  numerous  marshy  inlets  ac- 
centuated instead  of  relieving  the  deathly  stillness. 

We  ascended  the  Campanile,  though  as  far  as  my  friend 
was  concerned  there  was  no  longer  any  necessity  to  sketch 
elsewhere  than  in  the  meadows  at  our  feet.  But  neither  by 
words  nor  the  painter's  brush  could  the  ever-varying  and 
ever-wonderful  beauty  and  strangeness  of  the  scene  be  ad- 
quately  rendered,  nor  would  it  be  easy  to  say  what  times  and 
seasons  surpass  each  other  in  supreme  fascination — probably 
in  the  hour  of  sunset  in  summer  with  a  breeze  from  the 
north,  and  the  atmosphere  intensely  clear;  or  at  moonrise  in 
August  or  September,  when  the  skies  above  are  of  deepest 


THE  OUTER  RIM  61 

purple,  and  the  planets  and  stars  are  like  gold  lamps  and 
silver-shining  globes,  and  over  the  stagnant  morasses  wander- 
ing marsh-lights  flit  to-and-fro  like  the  ghosts  of  those  deadly 
fires  which  so  long  ago  embraced  in  a  long  death-agony  the 
cities  of  Altinum  and  Aquileia,  whose  neighbouring  sites  now 
abide  in  the  same  desolation  as  Torcello. 

But  even  in  the  misty  noon  of  this  day  of  our  visit,  the 
beauty  was  at  once  memorable  and  strangely  impressive. 
Below  us  were  the  salt  creeks  and  dreary  morasses  of  the 
Torcellan  shore,  the  Duomo,  the  ancient  church  of  Santa 
Fosca,  and  the  anything  but  palatial  Palazzo  Pubblico; 
beyond  these,  occasional  short  meadows  of  brilliant  green, 
with  purple  orchis  and  tall  gamboge-tinted  hellebore,  and 
even  some  sprays  of  pink  gladiolus  interspersed  among  the 
seeded  grasses,  and  at  frequent  intervals  upon  the  sandy 
ridges  small  bands  of  poppies ;  beyond  these  ridges  again  the 
misty  blue  of  the  Adriatic  washing  onward  past  the  long  line 
of  Malamocco.  To  the  north  and  west  we  could  just 
descry  the  dim  outlines  of  the  Friulian  Alps  and  the  shadowy 
Euganeans;  while  southward  in  every  direction  the  wings  of 
the  sirocco  spread  a  silvery  haze,  through  whose  shifting  veil 
glimpses  only  at  intervals  were  to  be  caught  of  the  domes  and 
palaces  of  Venice,  the  islands  of  Burano,  Murano,  San 
Michele,  Sant'  Elena,  and  the  wooded  promontory  of  San 
Nicoletto — to  the  west,  Mestre  and  the  unreal  islands 
beyond  the  Canale  di  Brenta. 

Later  on  we  sought  that  rough  stone  seat  which  legend 
declares,  on  very  dubious  grounds,  to  have  been  the  throne  of 


62  VENICE 

Attila  when  he  watched  the  blaze  of  burning  Altinum  red- 
dening the  sky.  Here  my  friend  sketched,  and  so  the  pleas- 
ant and  dreamy  hours  passed  on  till  late  in  the  afternoon. 
Suddenly  a  lark's  song  rose  clear  and  strong,  like  a  swift 
uprising  fountain  in  a  desert  place;  and,  looking  up  to 
descry  the  welcome  singer,  I  noticed  that  the  wind  had  fallen 
wholly  from  its  previous  slight  breath  to  absolute  stillness. 

"  And  skyward  yearning  from  the  sea  there  rose, 
And  seaward  yearning  from  the  sky  there  fell, 
A  spirit  of  deep  content  unspeakable." 

— William   Watson. 

In  a  few  minutes,  like  a  mist  before  sunrise,  the  silvery 
gauze  of  the  sirocco  gradually  dispelled  or  retreated,  first 
leaving  Venice  clear  in  the  golden  sunlight,  then  the  blue 
waters  of  the  lagoon  to  the  west  of  the  Lido  of  Sant'  Elisa- 
betta,  and  then  finally  passed  away  by  the  sea-washed 
Malamocco,  along  the  distant  narrow  strand  of  Pelestrina, 
and  onwards  towards  unseen  Chioggia  thirty  miles  or  more 
away  to  the  south. 

As  we  left  Torcello,  already  looking  far  more  desolate, 
and  almost  as  though  it  were  awakening  from  a  dream,  a 
cool  slight  wind  from  the  far-off  Carnic  Alps  stole  forth,  and 
by  the  time  that  Burano  was  passed  the  deep  blue  waters 
were  here  and  there  curled  with  white  foam,  lightly  tossed 
from  short  wave  to  wave.  As  Murano  came  under  our  lee, 
about  half  a  mile  to  the  east,  we  saw  Venice  as  she  can  only 
be  seen  half  a  dozen  times  in  a  year.  Each  dome  and  palace 


THE  OUTER  RIM  63 

and  fretted  spire  was  outlined  in  purple-black  against  a  cir- 
cumambient halo  of  wild-rose  pink,  shading  to  a  gorgeous 
carmine,  and  thence  to  an  undescribably  soft  and  beautiful 
crimson;  through  these,  great  streaks  and  innumerable  islets 
of  translucent  amethyst  spread  and  shone,  while  every  here 
and  there  bars  and  narrow  shafts  of  absolute  gold  pierced  the 
azure  and  purple  and  crimson,  like  promontories  in  a  rain- 
bow-coloured sea.  As  these  again,  like  fronds  of  a  gigantic 
fan,  six  or  seven  great  streamers  of  pale  saffron  stretched 
from  the  setting  sun  to  the  depths  of  the  sky,  and  it  seemed 
for  a  moment  as  though  the  whole  visible  world,  without 
motion,  without  sound,  were  dissolving  away  in  a  glory  and 
splendour  of  light  and  ineffable  colour. 


THE  TRAGHETTI 

HORATIO  F.  BROWN 

THE  traghetti  of  Venice,  the  ferries  that  cross  the 
Grand  Canal,  or  ply  from  point  to  point  on  the 
Giudecca,  are  a  feature  no  less  peculiar  to  the  city 
than  are  the  gondolas  themselves,  and  they  are  quite  as  an- 
cient. There  are  as  many  as  sixteen  of  the  ferries  across  the 
Grand  Canal  and  the  Giudecca:  and  each  of  them  has  its 
own  history,  its  own  archives  and  documents.  For  from  its 
foundation  each  traghetto  was  a  guild,  a  close  corporation 
with  a  limited  number  of  members,  with  its  own  particular 
rules,  or  marlegole,  inscribed  on  parchment,  in  Gothic  char- 
acters, "  lettere  di  forma,"  as  the  gondoliers  called  them,  and 
adorned  with  capitals  painted  in  vermilion,  and  here  and 
there  an  illuminated  page  showing  the  patron  saint  of  the 
traghetto,  or  the  Assumption  of  Madonna  into  heaven.  The 
mariegole  of  the  various  traghetti,  in  their  old  Venetian  bind- 
ings of  morocco  and  gold,  may  still  be  seen  in  the  archives 
of  the  Frari:  and  a  singular  fascination  attaches  to  the 
ancient,  time-stained  parchment  which  contains  the  history 
of  that  system  of  self-government  which  was  developed  by 
the  gondoliers  during  five  centuries  of  Venetian  story,  and 
whose  rules  are  expresssed  in  rich  and  vigorous  dialect.  The 
earliest  of  these  mariegole  belongs  to  the  traghetto  of  Santa 
Sofia,  near  the  Rialto,  and  dates  from  the  year  1344:  the 
64 


THE  TRAGHETTI  65 

traghetto  itself,  however,  was  probably  much  older.  Yet 
the  same  regulations  and  customs  which  governed  the  gon- 
doliers in  the  Fourteenth  Century,  hold  good  in  the  Nine- 
teenth. A  traghetto  of  to-day  closely  resembles  a  traghetto 
of  1300,  though  the  years  have  overlaid  its  lines  with  dust: 
it  is  still  a  corporation,  with  property  and  endowments  of  its 
own:  the  same  officers,  under  the  same  titles,  still  keep 
order  among  the  brothers:  only  the  whole  institution  has  a 
somewhat  ancient  air,  is  marred  by  symptoms  of  decay,  and 
we  fear  that  it  may  not  last  much  longer.  Indeed,  the  his- 
tory and  internal  arrangement  of  the  traghetti  offer  the  best 
example  of  that  which  makes  the  subject  of  gondolier  life 
interesting  to  the  student  of  antiquity:  for  the  traghetti  are, 
in  fact,  a  genuine  part  of  the  Venetian  Republic  imbedded  in 
United  Italy;  a  fossil  survival  unique  in  the  history  of  the 
country,  and  perhaps  in  that  of  the  world. 

The  date  at  which  the  first  traghetto  was  established,  that 
is  when  the  gondoliers  plying  for  hire  first  formed  them- 
selves into  a  guild  at  their  ferry,  is  not  known:  but  such  a 
guild  was  certainly  in  existence  before  the  middle  of  the 
Fourteenth  Century.  A  corporation  of  this  nature  was 
called  a  scuola  at  Venice:  and  from  the  very  first  these 
schools  of  the  gondoliers  were  of  a  religious  character,  ded- 
icated to  a  patron  saint,  and  in  close  connection  with  the 
church  of  the  parish  where  the  ferry  was  situated.  This  is 
the  way  in  which  the  scuola  of  Santa  Maria  Zobenigo  opens 
its  book  of  rules: 

"  In  the  name  of  God,  the  Eternal  Father,  and  of  His  Son 


66  VENICE 

Misser  Jesu  Cristo,  and  of  His  glorious  mother,  the  Virgin 
Mary,  and  of  the  thrice-blessed  patron  Misser  San  Marco, 
and  of  Misser  San  Gregorio,  who  are  the  guardians  of  us  the 
boatmen  at  the  traghetto  of  San  Gregorio  and  Santa  Maria 
Zobenigo:  may  they  help  each  and  all  of  us  brothers  to  live 
in  fear  of  the  Lord  God  and  with  peace  and  brotherly  love 
between  us,  first  in  health  and  prosperity  and  then  to  salva- 
tion of  our  souls  and  the  remission  of  our  sins."  And  in 
their  parish  church  the  brothers  of  each  scuola  had  a  special 
place  appointed  for  them,  usually  under  the  organ,  where 
they  sat  in  a  body  on  Sundays,  their  officers  at  the  head  of 
each  bench.  The  first  section  of  the  rules  which  governed 
the  schools  invariably  applies  to  Church  observance:  "The 
school  pledges  itself  to  keep  a  lamp  burning  day  and  night 
before  the  altar.  .  .  .  Every  second  Sunday  in  the 
month  they  shall  cause  a  solemn  mass  to  be  sung.  .  .  . 
Every  Monday  an  ordinary  mass.  .  .  .  Every  brother 
shall  be  obliged  to  confess  twice  a  year,  or  at  least  once,  and 
if,  after  a  warning,  he  remain  impenitent  he  shall  be  ex- 
pelled. A  brother  who  made  the  pilgrimage  to  Loretto,  for 
the  good  of  his  soul,  or  of  his  body,  was  entitled  to  one  cen- 
tesimo  a  day  while  his  journey  lasted."  Those  brothers 
who  "  continue  to  live  publicly  in  any  deadly  sin,  shall  be 
admonished,  and  expelled  unless  they  amend."  The  fines 
for  disobedience  and  quarrelsomeness  were  "  applicate  alia 
Madonna,"  that  is,  they  formed  a  fund  for  keeping  an  oil 
lamp  burning  at  the  shrine  of  the  Madonna,  "  per  luminar  la 
Madonna."  And  the  first  fare  taken  at  the  traghetto  each 


THE  TRAGHETTI  67 

morning  was  dedicated  to  the  same  purpose  and  was  called 
the  "  parada  della  Madonna." 

The  advantages  conferred  by  these  schools  were  so  con- 
siderable and  so  obvious  that,  not  only  did  every  traghetto 
established  one,  but  other  classes  of  boatmen — the  burchieri, 
or  bargees,  for  example — applied  for  leave  to  found  a  school. 
The  petition  of  the  burchieri  is  a  curious  document.  It  is 
addressed  to  the  Council  of  Ten,  and  sets  forth  that  "  this 
glorious  lagoon  is  constantly  in  need  of  dredging,  and  should 
Your  Excellencies  grant  out  prayer,  you  will  always  have 
barges  at  your  disposal  for  this  purpose.  Moreover,  if  we 
be  allowed  to  found  a  school,  we  shall  put  an  end  to  the  dirt 
and  noise  on  the  Grand  Canal  under  your  windows.  And 
we  promise  to  pay  eighty  ducats  yearly  to  the  Water  Com- 
missioners. And,  on  the  festival  of  the  Ascension,  we  will 
make  a  triumph  with  our  barges,  to  accompany  the  Doge 
when  he  goes  to  wed  the  sea." 

There  is  a  fact  about  the  nationality  of  the  gondoliers  in 
the  Fifteenth  Century  which  is  worth  noticing  in  passing. 
From  the  lists  of  the  members  of  each  traghetto,  it  appears 
that  less  than  half  were  natives  of  Venice.  Some  hail  from 
Treviso,  from  Ravenna,  Padua,  Bergamo,  Brescia,  or 
Vicenza;  very  many  from  Salo,  on  the  lake  of  Garda;  but 
by  far  the  largest  number  come  from  the  Dalmatian  coast, 
from  Sobenico,  Zara,  Segna,  Traii,  Spalato.  A  century 
later,  these  foreign  names  had  disappeared.  The  gondoliers 
'  had  either  become,  for  the  most  part,  Venetians  proper,  or, 
more  probably,  the  foreign  names  had  been  dropped,  as  the 


68  VENICE 

families  took  root  in  their  new  home.  However  that  may 
be,  the  men  who  first  established  these  schools  with  their 
admirable  system  of  government,  were  chiefly  foreigners  and 
not  Venetians. 

Every  gondolier  who  worked  at  a  traghetto  belonged, 
ipso  facto,  to  the  scuola  of  that  traghetto;  and  his  title  was 
barcariol  del  traghetto,  to  distinguish  him  from  his  natural 
enemy,  the  barcariol  toso,  or  loose  gondolier,  who  went  about 
poaching  on  the  confines  of  the  various  ferries,  and  stealing  a 
fare  whenever  he  could. 

The  scuole,  it  is  true,  exist  no  longer  in  all  their  clearly 
defined  constitution;  the  passage  of  time  has  broken  down 
this  structure  of  the  early  gondoliers.  But  the  traghetti  still 
survive  and  each  is  governed  by  its  ancient  officials,  its  gas- 
taldo  and  bancali.  The  latter  are  still  responsible  for  the 
good  order  of  the  men ;  they  arrange  the  rotations  of  service ; 
they  see  to  the  cleanness  and  safety  of  the  landing-places; 
they  retain  their  powers  of  trying,  fining,  or  suspending  a 
refractory  brother;  if  the  city  authorities  have  any  orders  to 
issue,  they  communicate  with  the  gastaldo  and  bancali;  these 
officers  are  a  true  survival  of  the  Fourteenth  Century,  with 
their  duties,  character  and  powers  undiminished  by  the  lapse 
of  years.  And  the  arrangements  which  these  officers  made  of 
old  for  the  good  government  of  their  traghetti  retain  their 
force  in  the  Venice  of  to-day.  In  no  profession  are  antique 
words  more  frequently  to  be  found  than  in  that  of  gondolier  ; 
the  customs  and  phrases  of  their  trade  seem  to  have  become 
hereditary  in  the  blood  of  the  gondoliers,  though  it  is  only 


THE  TRAGHETTI  69 

when  modern  regulations  are  imposed  upon  them  that  the 
men  discover  how  deeply  seated  is  their  attachment  to  their 
ancient  art. 

The  arrangements  of  the  traghetti  are  simple  and  efficient 
to  maintain  order;  for  though  the  noise  is  often  great  and  a 
stranger  might  well  believe  that  the  men  spent  the  larger 
part  of  their  time  in  quarrelling,  yet,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  a 
serious  quarrel  between  two  brothers,  while  on  duty  rarely 
occurs.  The  internal  arrangement  of  a  traghetto  will  be 
most  easily  understood  by  taking  a  typical  instance,  the 
traghetto  of  Santa  Maria  Zobenigo.  This  has  one  other 
traghetto,  that  of  San  Maurizio,  and  one  station,  that  of  the 
Ponte  delle  Ostreghi,  attached  to  it,  and  worked  by  the  men 
of  Santa  Maria.  Besides  serving  these  three  posts,  the 
gondoliers  have  duty  at  the  neighbouring  hotel,  and  lastly 
there  is  the  patula,  or  night  service.  All  the  members  of  the 
traghetto,  forty-two  in  all,  are  divided  into  six  companies, 
each  of  which  works  in  rotation  as  follows :  One  day  at  San 
Maurizio,  one  day  at  Santa  Maria  Zobenigo,  one  day  at  the 
Ponte  delle  Ostreghi;  then  come  the  two  most  important 
and  profitable  days  for  work,  at  the  hotel  Alia  Locanda,  and 
the  patula.  One  of  the  companies  is  on  duty  at  the  hotel 
each  day,  and  the  men  answer  in  turn  to  the  hotel  porter's 
summons  of  poppe  a  uno,  or  a  due,  as  one  or  two  rowers  are 
required.  It  is  well  to  remember  that  should  one  wish  to 
secure  a  particular  gondolier,  he  must  be  called  by  his  num- 
ber; the  rules  of  the  traghetto  forbid  him  to  answer  to  his 
name.  After  the  service  at  the  hotel  comes  the  patula,  or 


70  VENICE 

service  of  twenty-four  hours  at  the  principal  ferry.  The 
fares  for  the  parada,  or  passage,  from  one  side  to  the  other, 
is  five  centesimi  during  the  day,  and  ten  after  the  great  bell  of 
St.  Mark's  has  sounded  at  evening.  The  reason  why  this 
service  of  the  patula  is  so  profitable  is  the  following:  the 
service  lasts  from  9  A.  M.  till  the  following  9  A.  M.  ;  at  4  P.  M. 
all  the  men  except  those  belonging  to  the  company  on  duty, 
leave  the  traghetto,  thus  reducing  the  numbers  to  a  sixth,  and 
increasing  the  gains.  From  4  P.  M.  till  9  A.  M.  the  men  on 
the  patula  have  the  ferry  all  to  themselves,  and  take  all  the 
hire  that  comes,  both  for  services  of  an  hour  or  more,  as 
well  as  the  fares  for  the  parada,  the  only  restriction  being 
that  the  ferry  must  never  be  left  with  less  than  two  men  to 
attend  to  it.  Their  dinner  is  brought  down  to  the  ferry  by 
the  gondoliers'  wives  or  children,  and,  in  the  summer,  one 
may  often  see  a  whole  family  party  supping  together  in  the 
bows  of  a  gondola.  In  the  hot  weather,  the  men  sleep  in 
their  gondolas,  and  in  winter,  as  many  of  them  as  can  find 
room  crowd  into  the  little  wooden  hut  which  stands  at  the 
traghetto — the  only  remnant  now  of  their  chapter-house — 
where  the  bancali  meet  to  settle  the  affairs  of  the  fraternity. 
Sometimes  the  men  on  the  patula  club  together,  and  divide 
the  whole  gains  for  the  night  in  equal  portions;  sometimes 
each  works  on  his  own  account. 

The  ordinary  profits  of  the  traghetto  used  formerly  to  be 
so  great  that  the  gondoliers  neglected  the  service  of  the 
patula,  preferring  to  spend  their  nights  at  home,  or  in  the 
wine-shops.  But  now  a  gondolier  will  tell  you  that  his, 


THE  TRAGHETTI  71 

largest  permanent  gains  each  week  come  from  the  patula; 
and,  at  a  good  traghetto,  he  may  count  upon  making  four 
lire  one  night  in  every  six,  and  frequently  makes  much  more. 
At  9  A.  M.  those  who  have  been  on  the  patula  the  previous 
night,  leave  the  traghetto  for  the  whole  of  that  day.  The 
rotation  of  six  days,  three  at  the  three  posts,  one  at  the  hotel, 
one  on  the  patula,  and  one  off-day,  makes  up  the  diurnal  life 
of  the  gondolier,  unless  he  should  be  fortunate  enough  to 
have  found  a  padrone,  in  which  case  he  is  free  from  all 
the  rules  and  service  of  the  traghetto.  While  on  duty  at  the 
ferry,  a  few  excellent  rules  suffice  to  keep  order  among  the 
men.  Those  on  duty  are  arranged  numerically;  and,  when 
a  passenger  comes  to  the  ferry,  no  one  may  call  to  him  but 
the  gondolier  whose  turn  it  is ;  the  only  exception  to  this  rule 
being  that  if  a  friar  wishes  to  cross  the  ferry,  the  boat  last  in 
the  order  is  bound  to  serve  him,  and  for  nothing.  This  cus- 
tom is,  however,  falling  into  disuse.  No  gondolier  on  duty 
may  tie  his  boat  to  the  poll,  or  posts,  of  the  traghetto,  nor  may 
he  wash  his  boat  in  cavana,  the  spaces  between  the  posts 
where  the  gondola's  bows  run  in.  While  on  service,  he  is 
forbidden  to  go  to  the  wine-shops;  if  he  does,  he  loses  his 
turn,  and  when  he  comes  back  he  takes  his  place  last  on  the 
list. 

At  the  opening  of  the  Seventeenth  Century,  the  govern- 
ment was  obliged  to  revolutionise  the  whole  character  of  the 
traghetti  by  taking  away  their  property  in  the  liberties. 
Hitherto  there  had  been  five  modes  by  which  a  man  might 
become  a  member  of  a  traghetto — either  by  election  in  chapter 


72  VENICE 

of  the  school;  or  by  the  renunciation  of  a  brother  In  his 
favour;  or  by  exchange  between  two  members  of  different 
ferries;  or  by  the  order  of  the  Proveditori  as  filling  a 
vacancy  unfilled  by  the  school;  or  by  order  of  the  Prove- 
ditori as  a  reward  for  good  naval  service.  Now,  all  the  liber- 
ties, as  soon  as  they  fell  vacant,  were  put  up  to  auction  in 
the  office  of  the  Milizia  da  Mar,  and  knocked  down  to  the 
highest  bidder.  From  this  time  forward,  till  the  close  of  the 
Republic,  purchase  at  auction  from  the  government  became 
the  only  way  in  which  a  man  could  obtain  a  license  as  gon- 
dolier. The  government  undertook  the  supervision  of  the 
registers,  and  any  liberty  that  remained  unoccupied  through 
neglect,  ill  health,  or  death,  was  sold  immediately. 

Thus  the  traghetti  lost  the  control  over  their  liberties; 
and  with  that  control  disappeared  the  most  important  part  of 
their  functions  and  powers  as  a  corporation.  From  that  date 
to  this,  the  government  of  the  day  has  been  the  virtual 
owner  of  the  liberties,  and  the  final  resort  in  all  questions 
affecting  their  management.  Until  quite  recently,  a  young 
gondolier  might  buy  an  old  one  out  of  his  place  at  a  good 
traghetto,  for  about  three  hundred  lire;  and  the  municipality 
readily  sanctioned  such  exchanges.  But  the  present  town- 
council  desire  to  put  an  end  to  this  remnant  of  ancient  priv- 
ilege, and  insist  that  they  alone  shall  appoint  and  transfer, 
and  that  the  gondoliers  have  no  claim  to  initiative  in  the 
matter. 

The  regulations  of  the  government  on  the  subject  of 
liberties  restored  comparative  order  to  the  traghetti,  though 


THE  TRAGHETTI  73 

they  could  not  alter  human  nature,  and  we  come  across  oc- 
casional outbursts  of  the  riotous  spirit  among  the  young 
gondoliers,  who  still  bullied  their  passengers,  and  exacted 
more  than  their  due  centesimo  for  the  fare  across  the  ferry. 
In  the  year  1702,  the  censors  threaten  the  whip,  and  other 
tortures,  for  those  who  carry  pistols  or  knives  in  their  boats ; 
and,  as  late  as  1800,  one  Francesco  Pelizzari;  distinguished 
himself  by  crowding  twenty-nine  unfortunate  people  into  his 
gondola,  and  refusing  to  land  them  till  they  had  paid  a  modo 
fuo.  For  this  exploit,  however,  he  was  banished  from  Venice. 
The  corporate  life  of  the  traghetti  was  closed  by  the  action 
of  the  government  in  the  Sixteenth  Century.  The  schools 
survived,  though  with  diminished  vitality,  until  the  extinc- 
tion of  the  Republic ;  and  even  now  certain  of  their  functions 
are  still  performed  by  the  modern  traghetti.  The  traghetti 
are  still  friendly  societies.  A  brother  who  falls  ill  receives  a 
certain  sum  daily  from  the  fraternity  as  long  as  his  illness 
lasts;  and  the  gastaldo  and  four  brothers  attend  his  funeral 
with  torches,  and  accompany  him  to  his  last  home  at  San 
Michele  when  he  dies.  The  bancali  are  still  the  recognised 
heads  of  the  traghetti,  and  hold  their  sittings  in  the  wooden 
shelter  huts  at  each  ferry's  end.  But  this  is  all  that  remains 
of  an  institution  which  was  once  among  the  most  remarkable 
and  complete  of  those  that  flourished  under  the  Venetian 
Republic. 


THE  GRAND  CANAL 

TH60PHILE  GAUTIER 

THE  Grand  Canal  is  in  Venice  what  the  Strand  is  in 
London,  the  Rue  Saint  Honore  in  Paris,  and  the 
Calle  d'Alcala  in  Madrid, — the  principal  artery 
of  the  city's  circulation.  It  is  in  the  form  of  an  S,  the  top 
curve  of  which  sweeps  through  the  city  at  St.  Mark's,  ter- 
minating at  the  island  of  St.  Chiara,  while  the  lower  curve 
ends  at  the  Custom  House  near  the  Giudecca  canal.  About 
the  middle,  this  S  is  cut  by  the  Rialto  bridge. 

The  Grand  Canal  of  Venice  is  the  most  wonderful  thing 
in  the  world.  No  other  town  can  afford  such  a  beautiful, 
strange  and  fairy-like  spectacle:  perhaps  equally  remarkable 
specimens  of  architecture  may  be  found  elsewhere,  but  they 
never  occur  under  such  picturesque  conditions.  There  every 
palace  has  a  mirror  to  admire  its  beauty  in,  like  a  coquettish 
woman.  The  superb  reality  is  doubled  by  a  charming  re- 
flection. The  waters  lovingly  caress  the  feet  of  those  beauti- 
ful facades  whose  brows  are  kissed  by  white  sunlight,  and 
cradle  them  in  a  double  sky.  The  little  buildings  and  the 
big  ships  that  can  get  so  far  seem  to  be  moored  expressly  as 
a  set-off,  or  as  foregrounds  for  the  convenience  of  decorators 
and  water-colourists. 

When  passing  the  Custom  House,  which,  with  the  Giu- 
stiniani  palace,  now  the  Hotel  de  I' Europe,  forms  the  entrance 
74 


THE   GRAND   CANAL  75 

of  the  Grand  Canal,  cast  a  glance  at  those  fleshless  horses' 
heads  carved  on  the  square  and  heavy  cornice  that  supports 
the  globe  of  Fortune :  does  this  singular  ornament  signify  that 
the  horse  being  of  no  use  in  Venice  people  part  with  it  at  the 
Custom  House,  or  is  it  rather  merely  a  caprice  of  ornament  ? 
The  latter  explanation  seems  to  us  the  best,  for  we  are  un- 
willing to  fall  into  the  symbolical  refinings  with  which  we 
have  reproached  others. 

The  Custom  House  is  a  fine  building  with  rustic  columns 
adorned  with  bossages  and  supporting  a  square  tower  ter- 
minated with  two  kneeling  figures  of  Hercules  back  to  back 
supporting  on  their  robust  shoulders  a  terrestrial  globe  upon 
which  turns  a  nude  figure  of  Fortune  with  hair  hanging  loose 
in  front  and  bald  behind,  and  holding  in  her  hands  the  two 
ends  of  a  veil  that  forms  a  vane  and  yields  to  the  faintest 
breeze:  for  this  figure  is  hollow,  like  the  Giralda  in  Seville. 
Close  to  the  Dogana  rises  the  white  cupola  of  Santa  Maria 
della  Salute  with  its  twisted  volutes,  its  pentagonal  staircase 
and  its  population  of  statues.  An  Eve  in  most  gallant  un- 
dress smiled  upon  us  from  the  top  of  a  cornice  bathed  in  sun- 
light. We  immediately  recognised  the  Salute  from  Can- 
aletto's  fine  picture  in  the  Louvre. 

Every  stretch  of  wall  tells  a  story;  every  house  is  a 
palace;  every  palace  is  a  masterpiece  and  a  legend.  With 
every  stroke  of  his  oar,  the  gondolier  mentions  a  name  that 
was  as  well  known  at  the  time  of  the  Crusades  as  it  is  to-day ; 
and  this  is  true  both  on  the  right  and  left  for  more  than  half 
a  league.  We  wrote  down  a  list  of  these  palaces,  not  all, 


76  VENICE 

but  the  most  noteworthy  of  them;  and  we  dare  not  copy  it 
on  account  of  its  length.  It  fills  five  or  six  pages:  Pietro 
Lombardi,  Scamozzi,  Vittoria,  Longhena,  Andrea  Tre- 
mignano,  Giorgio  Massari,  Sansovino,  Sebastiano  Mazzoni, 
Sammichelli  the  great  Veronese  architect,  Selva,  Domenico 
Rossi,  and  Visentini  drew  the  designs  and  directed  the  con- 
struction of  these  princely  dwellings,  without  counting  the 
wonderful  unknown  Mediaeval  artists  who  built  the  most 
romantic  and  picturesque  ones,  those  that  set  the  seal  of 
originality  upon  Venice. 

On  both  banks  altogether  charming  fagades  of  diversified 
beauty  follow  one  another  uninterruptedly.  After  one  of 
Renaissance  architecture,  with  its  columns  and  superimposed 
orders,  comes  a  Mediaeval  palace  of  Arabian-Gothic  style,  the 
prototype  of  which  is  the  Ducal  Palace,  with  its  open  bal- 
conies, its  ogives,  its  trefoils,  and  its  indented  acroterium. 
Farther  on  is  a  fagade  plated  with  coloured  marbles,  and  or- 
namented with  medallions  and  consoles;  then  comes  a  great 
rose  wall  pierced  with  a  wide  window  with  little  columns. 
Everything  is  to  be  found  here:  Byzantine,  Saracen,  Lom- 
bard, Gothic,  Roman,  Greek,  and  even  Rococo;  the  column 
large  and  small,  the  ogive  and  the  round  arch,  the  capricious 
capital  full  of  birds  and  flowers  that  has  been  brought  from 
Acre  or  Jaffa;  the  Greek  capital  that  was  found  among  the 
ruins  of  Athens,  the  mosaic  and  the  bas-relief,  Classical 
severity  and  the  elegant  fancies  of  the  Renaissance.  It  is  an 
immense  gallery  open  to  the  sky  wherein  one  may  study  the 
art  of  seven  or  eight  centuries  from  the  interior  of  one's 


THE  GRAND  CANAL  77 

gondola.  What  genius,  talent  and  money  have  been  ex- 
pended in  this  space  that  we  traverse  in  less  than  an  hour! 
What  prodigious  artists,  but  also  what  intelligent  and  mag- 
nificent lords!  What  a  pity  it  is  that  the  patricians  who 
knew  how  to  get  such  beautiful  things  executed  only  exist 
now  on  the  canvases  of  Titian,  Tintoretto  and  II  Moro! 

Before  even  arriving  at  the  Rialto,  you  have  on  your  left, 
going  up  the  canal,  the  Dario  palace,  in  the  Gothic  style; 
the  Venier  palace,  which  stands  at  angle,  with  its  ornaments, 
its  precious  marbles  and  its  medallions,  in  the  Lombard  style ; 
the  Fine  Arts,  a  Classic  facade  coupled  to  the  ancient  Scuola 
della  Carita  surmounted  by  a  Venice  riding  a  lion ;  the  Con- 
tarini  palace,  the  architect  of  which  was  Scamozzi;  the 
Rezzonico  palace,  with  three  superimposed  orders;  the  triple 
Giustiniani  palace  in  the  Mediaeval  taste ;  the  Foscari  palace, 
which  is  recognisable  by  its  low  door,  two  stages  of  little 
columns  supporting  ogives  and  trefoils,  in  which  the  sover- 
eigns who  visited  Venice  were  formerly  lodged;  the  Balbi 
palace,  over  the  balcony  of  which  princes  leaned  to  watch  the 
regattas  held  on  the  Grand  Canal  with  so  much  pomp  and 
splendour  in  the  halcyon  days  of  the  Republic;  the  Pisani 
palace,  in  the  German  style  of  the  beginning  of  the  Fifteenth 
Century;  and  the  Tiepolo  palace,  which  is  relatively  quite 
spruce  and  modern,  with  its  two  elegant  pyramidions.  On 
the  right,  close  to  the  Hotel  de  I'Europe,  between  two  big 
buildings  is  a  delicious  little  palace  which  is  chiefly  composed 
of  a  window  and  a  balcony ;  but  what  a  window  and  what  a 
balcony!  A  gimp  of  stonework,  scrolls,  guilloches  and 


78  VENICE 

pierced  work  that  one  would  think  impossible  to  produce 
except  with  a  punch  on  one  of  those  pieces  of  paper  that  are 
placed  over  lamp-globes. 

Continuing  up  the  canal,  we  find  the  following  palaces: 
Corner  della  Ca'  Grande,  which  dates  from  1532,  one  of 
Sansovino's  best;  Grassi;  Corner-Spinelli ;  Grimani,  in  the 
robust  and  strong  architecture  of  Sammicheli,  the  marble 
base  of  which  is  surrounded  by  a  Greek  course  of  very  fine 
effect;  and  Farsetti  with  a  columned  peristyle  and  a  long 
gallery  of  little  columns  that  occupies  its  whole  front.  We 
might  say,  as  Don  Ruy  Gomez  da  Silva  said  to  Charles  the 
Fifth,  in  Hernani,  when  he  is  showing  him  the  portraits  of 
his  ancestors:  "  I  pass  them  by,  and  better  ones  too."  We 
will,  however,  request  favour  for  the  Loredan  palace  and  the 
ancient  dwelling  of  Enrico  Dandolo,  the  conqueror  of 
Constantinople.  Between  these  palaces  there  are  houses 
that  set  them  off,  whose  chimneys  shaped  like  turbans,  turrets 
and  vases  of  flowers  very  happily  break  up  the  great  archi- 
tectural lines. 

Sometimes  a  traghetto,  or  a  piazzetta,  such  as  the  campo 
San  Vitali,  for  example,  which  faces  the  Academy,  appro- 
priately cuts  this  long  suite  of  monuments.  This  campo, 
lined  with  rough-coated  houses  of  a  strong  and  lively  red, 
forms  the  happiest  contrast  with  its  vine  branches  of  an  inn 
arbour;  this  vermeil  spot  in  this  line  of  facades  that  have 
been  more  or  less  browned  by  time  rests  and  delights  the  eye; 
some  painter  is  always  found  established  here  with  his  pal- 
ette on  his  thumb  and  his  box  on  his  knees.  The  gondoliers 


THE  GRAND   CANAL  79 

and  pretty  girls  who  are  attracted  by  the  presence  of  these 
strange  beings  always  pose  naturally,  and  from  admirers 
become  professional  models. 

The  Rialto,  which  is  the  finest  bridge  in  Venice,  has  a 
very  grandiose  and  monumental  appearance:  it  spans  the 
canal  with  a  single  arch  of  an  elegant  and  bold  curve.  It 
was  built  by  Antonio  da  Ponte,  in  1691,  when  Pasquale 
Cigogna  was  Doge,  and  replaces  the  ancient  wooden  draw- 
bridge in  Albert  Diirer's  plan  of  the  city.  Two  rows  of 
shops,  separated  in  the  middle  by  an  arcaded  portico,  giving 
a  glimpse  of  the  sky,  occupy  the  sides  of  the  bridge  that  may 
be  crossed  by  three  ways:  a  central  one  and  two  outside  path- 
ways adorned  with  marble  balustrades.  About  the  Rialto 
bridge,  which  is  one  of  the  most  picturesque  points  of  the 
Grand  Canal,  are  piled  the  oldest  houses  in  Venice,  with 
their  flat  roofs  with  poles  for  awnings,  their  tall  chimneys, 
their  bulging  balconies,  their  staircases  with  disjointed  steps, 
and  their  wide  spaces  of  red  plaster  that  have  scaled  off  in 
places  and  left  bare  the  brick  wall,  and  the  foundations  that 
are  green  from  the  contact  of  the  water.  Near  the  Rialto, 
there  is  always  a  tumult  of  shipping  and  gondolas,  and  stag- 
nant islets  of  moored  small  crafts  drying  their  tawny  sails 
that  sometimes  bear  a  great  cross. 

Beyond  the  Rialto  on  the  two  banks  are  grouped  the  old 
Fondaco  dei  Tedeschi,  the  walls  of  which  tinted  with  un- 
certain hues  enable  us  to  divine  the  frescoes  of  Titian  and 
Tintoretto,  like  dreams  that  are  about  to  take  flight;  the 
Fish  Market,  the  Herb  Market,  and  the  old  and  new  con- 


8o  VENICE 

structions  of  Scarpagnino  and  Sansovino.  These  reddened 
and  degraded  buildings,  admirably  toned  and  tinted  by  time 
and  neglect,  must  constitute  the  despair  of  the  municipality 
and  the  delight  of  painters.  Beneath  their  arcades  swarms  an 
active  and  noisy  population,  that  mounts  and  descends,  comes 
and  goes,  buys  and  sells,  laughs  and  bawls.  There  fresh 
tunny  is  sold  in  red  slices;  and  mussels,  oysters,  crabs  and 
lobsters  are  carried  away  in  baskets. 

Under  the  arch  of  the  bridge,  where  the  noisiest  echoes 
resound  all  around,  the  gondoliers  sleep  sheltered  from  the 
sun  while  waiting  to  be  hired. 

Still  going  up  the  Grand  Canal,  we  see  on  the  left  the 
Corner  della  Regina  palace,  thus  named  after  the  queen 
Cornaro  of  Cyprus.  The  architecture  by  Domenico  Rossi  is 
of  great  elegance.  The  sumptuous  abode  of  Queen  Cornaro 
is  now  a  pawn-shop,  and  the  humble  tatters  of  misery  and  the 
jewels  of  improvidence  at  the  last  extremity  are  piled  up  here 
beneath  the  rich  ceilings  that  are  indebted  to  them  for  not 
falling  into  ruins:  for  to-day  it  does  not  suffice  to  be  beauti- 
ful, it  is  necessary  to  be  useful  as  well. 

The  Armenian  college,  not  very  far  away,  is  an  admir- 
able edifice,  by  Paldassare  de  Longhena  of  rich,  solid  and 
imposing  architecture.  It  is  the  old  Pesaro  palace.  To  the 
right  rises  the  Ca'  d'Oro  palace — one  of  the  most  charming 
on  the  Grand  Canal.  It  belonged  to  Mile.  Taglioni,  who 
had  it  restored  with  the  most  intelligent  care.  It  is  all  em- 
broidered and  laced  with  open  stonework  in  a  mixed  taste  of 
Greek,  Gothic  and  Barbarian;  and  is  so  fantastic,  so  light, 


THE   GRAND   CANAL  8.1 

so  aerial,  that  it  might  be  said  to  have  been  made  expressly 
for  the  nest  of  a  sylph. 

The  old  Vendramin  Calergi  palace,  the  most  beautiful  in 
Venice,  is  an  architectural  masterpiece,  and  its  carvings  are 
of  marvellous  fineness.  Nothing  can  be  prettier  than  the 
groups  of  children  who  hold  shields  over  the  arches  of  the 
windows.  The  interior  is  full  of  precious  marbles:  two 
porphyry  columns  of  such  rare  beauty  that  their  value  would 
pay  for  the  rest  of  the  palace  are  particularly  admired. 

Although  we  have  taken  a  long  time,  we  have  not  yet 
said  all.  We  notice  that  we  have  not  spoken  of  the  Mo- 
cenigo  palace,  where  the  great  Byron  lived.  The  Barberigo 
palace  also  deserves  mention.  It  contains  a  number  of  beau- 
tiful pictures,  and  a  carved  and  gilded  cradle  intended  for 
the  heir  of  the  noble  family,  a  cradle  that  might  be  made  into 
a  tomb,  for  the  Barberigos  are  extinct  as  well  as  the  major- 
ity of  the  old  Venetian  families.  Of  nine  hundred  patrician 
families  inscribed  in  the  Golden  Book,  scarcely  fifty  remain. 

A  few  strokes  of  the  oar  soon  brought  into  view  one  of  the 
most  marvellous  spectacles  that  were  ever  given  for  the 
human  eye  to  contemplate:  the  Piazzetta  seen  from  the 
water.  Standing  on  the  prow  of  the  stationary  gondola,  we 
looked  for  some  time  in  mute  ecstasy  at  this  picture  for  which 
the  world  has  no  rival, — perhaps  the  only  one  that  cannot  be 
surpassed  by  the  imagination. 

On  the  left  we  see  first  the  trees  of  the  Royal  garden  that 
traces  a  green  line  above  a  white  terrace;  then  the  Zecca 
(the  Mint)  a  building  of  robust  architecture;  and  the  old 


82  VENICE 

library,  (Sansovino's  work)  with  its  elegant  arcades  and 
crown  of  mythological  statues. 

On  the  right,  separated  by  the  space  that  forms  the  Piaz- 
zetta,  the  vestibule  of  St.  Mark's  Square,  the  Ducal  Palace 
presents  its  vermeil  fagade  lozenged  with  white  and  rose 
marble,  its  massive  columns  supporting  a  gallery  of  little 
pillars  the  ribs  of  which  contain  quatrefoils,  with  six  ogival 
windows,  and  its  monumental  balcony  ornamented  with  con- 
solas,  niches,  bell-turrets  and  statuettes  dominated  by  a  Holy 
Virgin;  its  acroterium  standing  out  against  the  blue  of  the 
sky  in  alternate  acanthus  leaves  and  points,  and  the  spiral 
listel  that  binds  its  angles  and  ends  in  an  open-work  pinnacle. 

At  the  end  of  the  Piazzetta,  besides  the  Library,  the 
Campanile  rises  to  a  great  height;  this  is  an  immense  brick 
tower  with  a  pointed  roof  surmounted  by  a  golden  angel. 
On  the  Ducal  Palace  side,  St.  Mark's,  viewed  sideways, 
shows  a  corner  of  its  porch  which  faces  the  Piazzetta.  The 
view  is  closed  by  a  few  arcades  of  ancient  Procurators'  offices 
and  the  Clock  Tower  with  its  bronze  figures  for  striking  the 
hours,  its  Lion  of  St.  Mark  on  a  starry  blue  blackground  and 
its  great  blue  dial  on  which  the  four  and  twenty  hours  are 
inscribed. 

In  the  foreground,  facing  the  gondola  landing-place,  be- 
tween the  Library  and  the  Ducal  Palace  are  two  enormous 
columns  of  African  granite,  each  in  a  single  piece,  that  were 
formerly  rose  but  have  been  washed  into  colder  tones  by 
rain  and  Time. 

On  the  one  to  the  left,  coming  from  the  sea,  stands  in  a 


THE   GRAND   CANAL  83 

triumphant  attitude,  with  his  brow  encircled  by  a  metal  nim- 
bus, his  sword  by  his  side  and  lance  in  hand,  his  hand  resting 
on  his  shield,  a  finely  proportioned  St.  Theodore  slaying  a 
crocodile. 

On  the  column  to  the  right,  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark  in 
bronze,  with  outspread  wings,  claw  on  his  Gospel,  and  with 
scowling  face  turns  his  tail  on  St.  Theodore's  crocodile  with 
the  most  sour  and  sullen  air  that  can  be  expressed  by  a 
heraldic  animal. 

It  is  said  not  to  be  of  good  augury  to  land  between  these 
two  columns,  where  executions  formerly  took  place,  and  so 
we  begged  the  gondolier  to  put  us  ashore  at  the  Zecca  stairs 
or  the  Faille  bridge,  as  we  did  not  want  to  end  like  Marino 
Faliero,  whose  misfortune  it  was  to  be  cast  ashore  by  a  tem- 
pest at  the  foot  of  these  dread  pillars. 

Beyond  the  Ducal  Palace  the  new  prisons  are  visible, 
joined  to  it  by  the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  a  sort  of  cenotaph  sus- 
pended above  the  Faille  canal,  then  comes  a  curved  line  of 
palaces,  houses,  churches  and  buildings  of  all  kinds  that  form 
the  Riva  dei  Schiavoni  (the  Slave  Quay),  and  is  ended  by  the 
verdant  clump  of  the  public  gardens,  the  point  of  which  juts 
into  the  water. 

Near  the  Zecca  is  the  mouth  of  the  Grand  Canal  and  the 

»» 

front  of  the  Custom  House,  which,  with  the  public  gardens, 
forms  the  two  ends  of  this  panoramic  arc  over  which  Venice 
extends,  like  a  marine  Venus  drying  on  the  shore  the  pearls 
salted  by  their  natal  element. 

We  have  indicated   as  exactly  as  possible  the  principal 


84  VENICE 

lineaments  of  the  picture ;  but  what  should  be  rendered  is  the 
effect,  the  colour,  the  movement,  the  shiver  in  the  air  and 
water;  life,  in  fact.  How  can  one  express  those  rose  tones 
of  the  Ducal  Palace  that  look  as  lifelike  as  flesh;  those 
snowy  whitenesses  of  the  statues  tracing  their  contours  in  the 
azure  of  Veronese  and  Titian ;  those  reds  of  the  Campanile 
caressed  by  the  sun;  those  gleams  of  distant  gold;  those 
thousand  aspects  of  the  sea,  sometimes  clear  as  a  mirror, 
sometimes  scintillating  with  spangles,  like  the  skirt  of  a 
dancer?  Who  can  paint  that  vague  and  luminous  atmosphere 
full  of  rays  and  vapours  from  which  the  sun  does  not  exclude 
all  shadows;  that  going  and  coming  of  gondolas,  barks, 
and  galliots;  those  red  or  white  sails;  those  boats  familiarly 
leaning  their  cutwaters  against  the  quay,  with  their  thousand 
picturesque  accidents  of  flags,  ropes  and  drying  nets;  the 
sailors  loading  and  unloading  the  ships,  carrying  cases  an.d 
rolling  barrels,  and  the  motley  strollers  on  the  wharf.  Dal- 
matians, Greek,  Levantines  and  others  whom  Canaletto 
would  indicate  with  a  single  touch :  how  can  one  make  it  all 
visible  simultaneously  as  it  occurs  in  Nature,  with  a  succes- 
sive procedure?  For  the  poet,  less  fortunate  than  the 
painter  or  the  musician  has  only  a  single  line  at  his  disposal  ; 
the  former  has  a  whole  palette,  the  latter  an  entire  orchestra. 


THE  PATRICIANS'  PALACES 

P.  MOLMENTI 

THE  elegances  of  art  have  a  great  influence  upon 
private  manners.  Towards  the  end  of  the 
Fifteenth  Century  the  manifestations  of  taste  were 
everywhere  in  evidence,  and  it  might  be  said  that  even  cos- 
tume borrowed  its  forms  from  Art,  which  reigned  every- 
where,— in  the  modest  dwelling  of  the  poor  as  well  as  in  the 
Doge's  palace.  Along  with  wealth  was  augmented  the 
magnificence  of  the  palaces  that  sprang  from  the  waters  as  if 
by  enchantment.  In  his  Voyage,  Constant  says:  "  I  do 
not  speak  of  the  multitude  of  great  and  beautiful  and  rich 
palaces,  one  of  a  hundred,  another  of  fifty,  and  a  third  of 
thirty  thousand  ducats,  nor  of  their  owners,  for  it  would  be 
too  hard  a  task  for  me,  and  one  fitted  only  for  a  man  who  had 
to  stay  a  long  time  in  the  said  city  of  Venice."  The  annual 
rent  of  houses  for  the  use  of  nobles  was  from  fifty  to  one 
hundred  and  twenty  gold  ducats. 

The  interior  of  these  mansions  was  in  no  way  inferior  to 
the  exterior.  The  graceful  twines  of  the  arches  and  the 
spiral  columns  that  support  the  ogives  of  the  marble  facades 
were  reproduced  in  the  interior  ornamentation  and  in  the 
furniture  of  the  apartments  that  were  not  very  spacious,  but 
painted  and  decorated  with  severe  elegance.  The  commonest 
utensil  and  the  furniture  of  even  the  most  trifling  importance 


86  VENICE 

had  an  artistic  value.  Splendid  friezes  ran  around  the  upper 
portions  of  the  rooms  the  ceilings  of  which  "  remarkable  for 
their  mouldings,"  as  Sansovino  says,  and  their  arabesques, 
were  sometimes  of  carved  wood,  gilded  and  coloured,  and 
sometimes,  after  the  style  of  the  Thirteenth  Century,  with 
long  and  thick  beams  painted  and  carved  in  the  style  called 
intelaradure  alia  tedesca. 

The  walls  covered  with  tanned,  gilded  or  silvered  leather, 
with  ornaments  and  figures  (cuori  d'oro),  or  with  silken 
hangings,  sometimes  embroidered  with  precious  stones  or 
striped  with  thin  plates  of  gold ;  the  folding  doors,  the  jambs 
and  lintels,  all  carved  or  incrusted ;  the  chimney-pieces  dec- 
orated with  fantastic  interlacings  of  foliage,  chimeras,  sirens 
and  cupids  in  the  Lombard  taste : — everything  was  admirable 
for  its  richness  or  its  exquisite  form.  Among  other  examples, 
there  still  exists  in  the  Ducal  Palace  a  wonderful  model  of 
Fifteenth  Century  mural  decoration  in  the  room  degll  Scar- 
latti, which  at  first  was  the  Doge's  room,  and  afterwards  the 
place  where  the  Twelve  nobles,  who  wore  scarlet  robes, 
met.  Around  the  ceiling,  decorated  with  golden  rose-work 
on  a  blue  ground,  runs  an  elegant  frieze  carved  throughout; 
the  chimney-piece,  a  work  by  Lombardo  executed  when  Au- 
gustino  Barbarigo  was  Doge,  that  is  to  say,  between  1486 
and  1501,  is  a  masterpiece  for  the  marvellous  delicacy  of  its 
ornamentation,  which  twines  in  and  out  with  supple  elegance. 

But  what  we  have  fewest  examples  of  are  the  furniture  and 
hangings,  Time  having  consumed  the  greater  part  of  these, 
and  the  mercantile  spirit  of  the  age  having  relinquished  thd 


PALAZZO  LOREDAN 


PATRICIANS'  PALACES  87 

remainder  to  foreigners.  We  will  nevertheless  endeavour  to 
the  best  of  our  ability  to  reconstruct  in  imagination  the  in- 
terior of  a  patrician  mansion  of  the  Fifteenth  Century.  In 
the  middle  of  the  room  usually  occupied  by  the  nobles  were 
to  be  seen  on  the  walnut  table  of  chastened  style,  and  along 
the  walls  or  on  brackets,  in  charming  disorder,  amphorae,  ce- 
ramics, gold  and  silver  vases,  great  swords,  medals,  cymbals, 
lutes,  and  books  bound  in  guilloched  leather.  The  taste  for 
the  antique  was  already  in  the  ascendant,  and  in  glass  cases 
were  assembled  the  statuettes  and  other  objects  discovered  in 
the  excavations.  Hanging  from  the  ceilings,  or  fixed  to  the 
walls,  gleamed  lamps  of  Oriental  style  in  gilded  copper  or 
bronze  enamelled,  inlaid,  chased,  and  ornamented  with 
crystal  of  a  thousand  hues;  or  lanterns  adorned  with  little 
wreathed  columns,  closed  with  mirrors  of  various  forms, 
which  on  the  walls  produced  an  effect  of  painting  in  chiaros- 
curo; or  again  lanterns  of  hammered  iron  with  the  most 
elegant  volutes  and  open-work.  In  the  libraries  were  pre- 
served those  precious  parchment  manuscripts  whose  pages 
painted  with  miniatures,  with  infinite  patience  in  the  silence 
of  the  cloisters,  still  breathe  forth  the  amiable  ingenuity  of 
that  period.  The  table-service  was  of  gold  and  silver;  the 
glasses  and  flasks  of  Murano  had  an  individual  transparence 
and  elegance;  even  the  copper  vases  used  to  cool  the  drinks 
were  covered  with  strange  damaskeening.  The  bedrooms 
served  also  as  reception  rooms.  Around  the  mirrors,  and 
magnificently  hung  beds,  and  alcoves  supported  by  gilded 
caryatides,  were  framings  of  carved  open  woodwork,  border- 


88  VENICE 

ing  panels,  marquetry  work  and  other  ornaments  of  extreme 
delicacy.  During  the  early  years  of  the  Sixteenth  Century, 
the  Doge's  bed  was  covered  with  gold,  and  Contarini  says,  in 
describing  the  palace,  that  in  the  ducal  chamber  he  saw  the 
lettiera  coperta  de  aurea  malestate.  Beside  the  bed  was 
placed  the  Prie  Dieu,  beneath  those  diptychs  or  little  wooden 
altars  with  little  open  spires,  and  with  saints  with  golden 
aureoles; — beautiful  works  on  which  the  carver  often  cut  his 
name  beside  that  of  Vivarini  and  others  who  had  painted  the 
images.  The  presses,  coffers,  trousseaux  chests,  jewel  caskets 
for  wedding  presents  (which  on  that  account  were  justly 
called  marriages),  were  carved  or  painted  with  domestic 
and  battle  scenes.  People  ran  into  such  wild  expenditure 
for  the  furnishings  of  an  apartment  that  a  law  of  1476 
ordered  not  more  than  150  ducats  of  gold  were  to  be  spent 
on  wood,  gold  and  painting. 

The  Venetian  palaces  had  several  doors  that  did  not  all 
lead  into  the  vestibule  (entrada),  but  sometimes  into  vast 
courtyards  surrounded  with  walls  battlemented  in  the  Arab 
fashion.1  In  these  courtyards  were  wells  with  artistically 
sculptured  curbs;  and  here  were  found  those  picturesque 
stairways  without  carcass  that  we  still  admire  in  the  Sanudo 
Palace  of  St.  Mary  of  the  Miracles,  the  Capello  Palace  at  St. 
John  Lateran,  the  Centenni  Palace  at  San  Toma,  etc.,  etc.2 

1The  Foscari  palace,  for  instance. 

2  A  marvellous  staircase,  but  one  with  a  carcass,  is  the  spiral 
staircase  of  the  Contarini  Palace  at  San  Paterniano,  known  to-day 
under  the  name  of  Scala  a  bovolo  de  MinellL 


PATRICIANS'  PALACES  89 

In  the  Sixteenth  Century  the  change  from  the  ideas  of  the 
Middle  Ages  to  those  of  renascent  Antiquity  is  already  ac- 
complished. Pagan  grandeur  revives  in  all  its  splendour. 
The  demand  for  luxury  grows  more  marked  from  day  to  day 
and  in  the  interiors  furniture  becomes  richer  and  less  simple. 
Sansovino  writes,  towards  the  end  of  the  Sixteenth  Century: 
"  As  for  the  apartments,  furniture  and  incredible  riches,  one 
cannot  even  imagine  them,  far  less  describe  them  clearly. 
.  .  .  And  although  our  elders  were  economical,  they 
grew  magnificent  in  the  adornment  of  their  dwellings.  There 
are  innumerable  edifices  with  the  ceilings  of  the  chambers 
and  other  rooms  gilded  and  painted,  and  covered  with  his- 
torical pictures  and  excellent  fancies."  Franco,  also,  in  his 
turn,  says:  "  The  buildings  of  this  city  offer  an  admirable 
spectacle  to  one  who  looks  at  them  from  the  outside.  But 
when  one  sees  the  interiors,  they  are  still  more  astonishing 
and  wonderful,  for  they  are  adorned  with  very  beautiful 
paintings,  carvings,  mouldings,  tapestries,  gold  and  silver 
and  such  a  quantity  of  other  precious  ornaments,  that,  if  a 
man  wanted  to  enumerate  them,  those  who  have  not  seen 
them  would  take  him  for  a  liar."  Riches,  nevertheless,  were 
never  separated  from  beauty;  and,  moreover,  there  was  no 
cessation  in  the  invention  of  new  forms  of  presses,  credences, 
tables,  chairs,  doors  and  stools.  Sansovino  says:  "  In  fact, 
nowhere  else  are  to  be  seen  more  commodious,  more  con- 
centrated, or  more  fit  for  man's  use  than  these."  The  private 
life  of  that  century  was  written  in  the  pictures,  tapestries  and 
furniture;  just  as  the  public  life  was  written  in  the  monu- 


9o  VENICE 

ments.  With  time,  luxury  constantly  became  more  external 
and  was  displayed  principally  in  the  state  and  reception  rooms, 
each  one  of  which  could  contain  a  whole  modern  apartment. 
From  the  vestibules,  ornamented  with  mouldings  and  bas- 
reliefs,  household  goods  gradually  disappeared  and  the  an- 
cient arms  were  replaced  by  gigantic  show  halberds  with 
handles  covered  with  crimson  velvet,  studded  with  yellow 
leather  and  ornamented  with  red  silk  fringes  and  shining 
steel  on  which  are  engraved  fruits,  victories  and  trophies.  On 
the  landings  of  the  staircases  are  statues,  and  fragments  of 
antique  columns  with  inscriptions.  Even  in  the  hall  (or 
portico),  are  hung  precious  trophies  of  arms,  gemmed  shields 
and  flags.  The  doors  with  casings  of  rare  marble  lead  into 
great  rooms  where  gold,  velvet  and  silk  reflect  the  light  in  a 
thousand  ways  upon  the  walls  adorned  with  pictures  by 
celebrated  Venetian  masters.  The  notices  on  the  works  of 
design  of  the  first  half  of  the  Sixteenth  Century,  by  an  anon- 
ymous author  believed  to  be  Marc  Antoine  Michiel,  and 
published  by  Morelli,  show  us  the  quantity  of  admirable 
works  with  which  the  walls  then  had  to  be  hung. 


SANTA   MARIA   DELIA   SALUTE 

JOHN  RUSK  IN 

SANTA  MARIA  DELLA  SALUTE,"  Our  Lady  of 
Health,  or  of  Safety,  would  be  a  more  literal  trans- 
lation, yet  not  perhaps  fully  expressing  the  force  of 
the  Italian  word  in  this  case.     The  church  was  built  between 
1630  and  1680,  in  acknowledgment  of  the  cessation  of  the 
plague: — of  course  to   the  Virgin,   to   whom   the  modern 
Italian  has  recourse  in  all  his  principal  distresses,  and  who 
receives  his  gratitude  for  all  principal  deliverances. 

The  hasty  traveller  is  usually  enthusiastic  in  his  admiration 
of  this  building;  but  there  is  a  notable  lesson  to  be  derived 
from  it  which  is  not  often  read.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the 
broad  canal  of  the  Giudecca  is  a  small  church  celebrated 
among  Renaissance  architects  as  of  Palladean  design,  but 
which  would  hardly  attract  the  notice  of  the  general  observer, 
unless  on  account  of  the  pictures  by  John  Bellini  which  it 
contains,  in  order  to  see  which  the  traveller  may  perhaps 
remember  having  been  taken  across  the  Giudecca  to  the 
Church  of  the  "  Redentore."  But  he  ought  carefully  to 
compare  these  two  buildings  with  each  other,  the  one  built 
"  to  the  Virgin,"  the  other  "  to  the  Redeemer,"  also  a  votive 
offering  after  the  cessation  of  the  plague  of  1576:  the  one, 
the  most  conspicuous  church  in  Venice,  its  dome,  the  principal 
one  by  which  she  is  first  discerned,  rising  out  of  the  distant 
91 


92  VENICE 

sea ;  the  other,  small  and  contemptible,  on  a  suburban  island, 
and  only  becoming  an  object  of  interest,  because  it  contains 
three  small  pictures!  For  in  relative  magnitude  and  con- 
spicuousness  of  these  two  buildings,  we  have  an  accurate  index 
of  the  relative  importance  of  the  ideas  of  the  Madonna  and 
of  Christ  in  the  modern  Italian  mind. 

The  Church  of  Santa  Maria  della  Salute  on  the  Grand 
Canal,  one  of  the  earliest  buildings  of  the  Grotesque  Renais- 
sance, is  rendered  impressive  by  its  position,  size,  and  general 
proportions.  These  latter  are  exceedingly  good ;  the  grace  of 
the  whole  building  being  chiefly  dependent  on  the  inequality 
of  size  in  its  cupolas,  and  pretty  grouping  of  the  two  cam- 
paniles behind  them.  It  is  to  be  generally  observed  that  the 
proportions  of  buildings  have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
the  style  or  general  merits  of  their  architecture.  An  arch- 
itect trained  in  the  worst  schools,  and  utterly  devoid  of  all 
meaning  or  purpose  in  his  work,  may  yet  have  such  a  natural 
gift  of  massing  and  grouping  as  will  render  all  his  structures 
effective  when  seen  from  a  distance:  such  a  gift  is  very  gen- 
eral with  late  Italian  builders,  so  that  many  of  the  most 
contemptible  edifices  in  the  country  have  good  stage  effect 
so  long  as  we  do  not  approach  them.  The  Church  of  the 
Salute  is  farther  assisted  by  the  beautiful  flight  of  steps  in 
front  of  it  down  to  the  Canal;  and  its  fagade  is  rich  and 
beautiful  of  its  kind,  and  was  chosen  by  Turner  for  the 
principal  object  in  his  well-known  view  of  the  Grand  Canal. 
The  principal  faults  of  the  building  are  the  meagre  windows 
in  the  sides  of  the  cupola,  and  the  ridiculous  disguise  of  the 


SANTA   MARIA   DliLLA   SALUTE 


SANTA  MARIA  BELLA  SALUTE     93 

buttresses  under  the  form  of  colossal  scrolls;  the  buttresses 
themselves  being  originally  a  hypocrisy,  for  the  cupola  is 
stated  by  Lanzi  to  be  of  timber,  and  therefore  needs  none. 
The  sacristy  contains  several  precious  pictures:  the  three  on 
its  roof  by  Titian,  much  vaunted,  are  indeed  as  feeble  as  they 
are  monstrous;  but  the  small  Titian,  St.  Mark,  with  Sts. 
Cosmo  and  Damian,  was,  when  I  first  saw  it,  to  my  judg- 
ment, by  far  the  first  work  of  Titian's  in  Venice.  It  has 
since  been  restored  by  the  Academy,  and  it  seemed  to  me  en- 
tirely destroyed,  but  I  had  not  time  to  examine  it  carefully. 
At  the  end  of  the  larger  sacristy  is  the  lunette  which  once 
decorated  the  tomb  of  the  Doge  Francesco  Dandolo;  and  at 
the  side  of  it,  one  of  the  most  highy  finished  Tintorets  in 
Venice,  namely  The  Marriage  in  Cana,  an  immense  picture, 
some  twenty-five  feet  long  by  fifteen  feet  high,  and  said  by 
Lanzi  to  be  one  of  the  few  which  Tintoret  signed  with  his 
name. 


THE   RIALTO 

CHARLES  YRIARTE 

THE  Rialto  is  one  of  the  most  popular  names  of 
Venice,  and  the  one  that,  with  the  Lido,  recurs 
most  frequently  in  her  history  and  popular  songs. 
Originally,  the  spot  where  the  Rialto  rises  was  the  heart  of 
Venice,  one  of  those  islets  of  that  group  of  islands  which  at 
a  later  period  were  to  form  Venice  (Rivo-Alto)  ;  and  the 
Rialto,  as  the  old  chronicles  say,  designated  in  a  general  way 
the  site  of  the  city.  It  was  for  a  long  time  the  only  bridge 
thrown  across  the  Grand  Canal,  serving  as  communication 
between  the  two  large  groups  of  islands  divided  by  this 
Canal.  From  time  immemorial  (at  least  from  the  Twelfth 
Century),  there  was  a  wooden  foot-bridge  there,  constantly 
repaired,  until  the  day  when  the  Signory,  deciding  to  make 
the  Rialto  harmonise  with  the  beautiful  monuments  of 
Venice,  resolved  to  call  the  aid  of  the  great  architects  and 
engineers  of  the  time. 

I  have  had  the  curiosity  to  search  in  the  archives  of 
Venice  for  sketches  relating  to  the  Rialto ;  the  documents  are 
extremely  numerous,  but  do  not  go  back  further  than  the 
beginning  of  the  Sixteenth  Century;  they  give,  however, 
most  interesting  details  upon  the  construction  of  the  bridge 
that  exists  to-day  and  original  matter  enough  to  gather  the 
94 


THE  RIALTO  95 

history  of  the  construction.  For  everything  concerning  the 
state  of  the  building,  or  the  history  of  the  spot  itself  before 
the  Sixteenth  Century,  recourse  must  be  had  to  the  Venetian 
chroniclers,  and  first  of  all  to  Sansovino.  It  is  thought  that 
from  the  Eighth  Century,  the  necessity  was  felt  for  a  more 
rapid  means  of  passage  between  the  groups  of  islands  than  by 
means  of  boats,  and  that,  at  a  period  which  naturally  remains 
uncertain  but  which  must  have  been  contemporary  with  the 
building  of  St.  Mark's,  a  bridge  composed  of  flat  boats  called 
soleole  was  formed  at  the  Rialto. 

In  1 1 80,  an  engineer,  Barattieri,  whose  name  has  been 
preserved,  made  of  this  temporary  bridge  a  permanent  one, 
and  in  1260,  the  system  of  boats  being  definitively  suppressed, 
piles  were  driven  in  and  abutments  constructed  to  bear,  not  a 
stone  bridge,  as  some  historians  say,  but  a  draw-bridge;  and 
this  is  the  bridge  represented  in  Carpaccio's  famous  picture, 
The  Patriarch  of  Grado  healing  one  possessed  by  an  Evil 
Spirit,  which  is  in  the  Academy  of  Venice.  In  1310,  on 
the  occasion  of  the  conspiracy  of  Bajamonte  Tiepolo,  at  the 
moment  when  the  conspirators  were  about  to  seize  the  Ducal 
Palace,  having  found  St.  Mark's  Place  guarded,  they  fled 
precipitately  to  the  other  side  of  the  Canal,  and  cut  the 
bridge  behind  them  to  make  their  flight  sure.  Naturally,  the 
bridge  had  to  be  rebuilt  at  once,  but  the  work  was  done  too 
rapidly,  and  a  little  more  than  a  century  later,  on  the  occasion 
of  the  marriage  of  the  Marquis  of  Ferrara,  the  festival  was 
so  uproarious  that  the  bridge  gave  way  under  the  crowd  and 
serious  injuries  resulted.  This  being  the  only  passage  it  was 


96  VENICE 

too  useful  to  remain  interrupted  for  long;  and  they  sub- 
stituted for  the  broken  bridge  a  large  edifice  filled  up  with 
shops  on  either  side  of  the  footway,  and  a  water-passage  for 
the  large  boats. 

It  is  very  interesting  to  see  the  real  appearance  of  the 
Rialto  of  that  time  in  the  fine  canvas  of  Carpaccio  that  I 
have  just  mentioned ;  here  is  an  invaluable  bit  of  evidence 
for  the  history  of  Venetian  architecture.  One  might  have  ex- 
pected the  reconstructed  bridge  to  be  permanent;  but  any  one 
who  knows  Venice  and  her  history  intimately  will  under- 
stand that  the  perpetual  traffic  demanded  a  still  more  sub- 
stantial construction.  The  Fondaco  dei  Tedeschi  rises  on 
the  right,  the  palaces  of  Camerlenghi  on  the  left;  the 
Fabbriche  nuove,  and  the  jewellers  who  have  their  shops 
there  and  the  fish  and  vegetable  vendors  who  are  collected  on 
either  bank  create  such  a  continual  going  and  coming  that  a 
very  strong  bridge  is  required  to  resist  the  strain.  From 
1525,  nothing  but  complaints  were  heard  about  the  precarious 
condition  of  this  important  bridge,  and  promises  were  made 
to  substitute  a  durable  edifice.  Nothing  was  done  till  1587; 
Fra  Giocondo,  the  designer  of  Gaillon  and  the  bridge  of 
Notre-Dame,  had  once  submitted  a  plan;  Palladio  had  also 
made  one  in  his  turn;  at  last,  on  the  6th  of  December,  1587, 
the  Senate  invited  a  competition.  As  customary  in  Venice, 
a  commission  of  inquiry  was  nominated,  composed  of  three 
personages,  all  senators,  whose  especial  task  was  to  collect  in- 
formation and  look  for  the  anterior  plans  signed  by  Giorgio 
Spaventi,  Fra  Giocondo,  Scarpa  Guino,  Jacopo  Sansovino, 


THE  RIALTO  97 

Andrea  Palladio,  Jacopo  Barroccio  da  Vignola,  and,  it  is 
said,  by  the  great  Michelangelo. 

The  best  proof  of  the  truth  of  the  assertion  that  Michel- 
angelo submitted  a  plan  for  this  bridge,  is  furnished  by  the 
subject  of  a  painting  that  adorns  the  Casa  Buonarroti  at  Flor- 
ence and  which  represents  Michelangelo  being  received  with 
honour  by  the  Doge  Andrea  Gritti,  and  presenting  to  him  a 
drawing  for  the  Bridge  of  the  Rial  to. 

Of  the  twenty-four  plans  of  architects  and  engineers  the 
committee  pointed  out  to  the  Senate  and  Grand  Council,  the 
three  that  seemed  most  worthy,  Scamozzi,  Antonio  da  Ponte 
and  Albisio  Baldu.  The  work  was  entrusted  to  Da  Ponte; 
it  took  three  years  to  build  and  cost  two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  ducats,  or  thirty  thousand  pounds  of  English  money, 
which,  at  that  time,  was  a  considerable  sum.  Sansovino  says 
that  ten  thousand  pounds  of  elm  timber  would  have  to  be 
driven  in  to  a  depth  of  sixteen  feet;  a  large  armed  galley 
should  be  able  to  pass  under  the  keystone  of  the  arch  with 
lowered  mast,  and  withal  the  height  of  the  bridge  should  not 
be  great  enough  to  render  the  communication  between  the 
two  quarters  of  the  town  difficult. 

The  platform  of  the  bridge  is  about  twenty-four  metres 
long;  it  is  reached  by  an  easy  ascent  of  steps,  and  is  wide 
enough  to  hold  a  row  of  shops  under  arcades,  so  that  in 
reality  it  is  a  kind  of  suspended  street,  as  lively  as  a  market. 
The  central  arcade  is  left  clear  and  forms  an  open  gallery 
over  the  keystone  of  the  bridge ;  between  the  parapet  and  the 
shops  runs  a  balustraded  passage  supported  on  strongly  pro-. 


98  VENICE 

jecting  corbels.  The  span  of  the  arch  is  twenty-seven  metres, 
fifty  centimetres,  and  its  rise,  from  the  usual  level  of  the 
waters  of  the  Grand  Canal,  measures  seven  metres. 

The  traveller  who  delights  to  linger  on  St.  Mark's  Place 
in  the  Basilica,  at  the  Ducal  Palace,  and  in  the  museums  and 
churches  should  also  halt  long  and  frequently  upon  the 
Rialto;  for  it  is  certainly  a  unique  corner:  here  crowd 
together,  laden  with  fruit  and  vegetables,  the  black  boats 
that  come  from  the  islands  to  provision  Venice,  the  great  hulls 
laden  with  cocomeri,  angurie,  with  gourds  and  watermelons 
piled  in  coloured  mountains;  here,  the  gondolas  jostle  and 
the  gondoliers  chatter  like  birds  in  their  Venetian  idiom; 
here,  too,  are  the  fishermen  in  their  busy,  noisy,  black  market, 
an  assemblage  of  strange  craft  and  types  of  humanity;  and 
as  a  pleasant  contrast,  on  the  steps  of  the  bridge  and  stopping 
before  the  jewellers'  shops  are  the  girls,  from  the  different 
quarters  of  Venice,  from  Canareggio,  Dorso  Duro,  San 
Marco  and  Santa  Croce,  and  from  every  quarter  of  the 
town,  come  to  buy  the  coloured  neckerchiefs  with  which  they 
deck  themselves,  and  jewellery  of  delicately  worked  gold, 
bright  glass  beads  from  Murano,  or  glass  balls  iridescent  with 
green,  blue  and  rose;  while,  wrapped  in  their  old  grey 
shawls  that  allow  their  wrinkled  profiles  and  silvery  locks  to 
be  seen,  the  old  women  of  the  Rialto  drag  their  sandals  over 
the  steps  and  slip  into  the  crowd,  hiding  under  the  folds  of 
their  aprons  the  strange  food  they  have  just  bought  from  the 
open  air  vendors  who  sell  their  wares  on  the  borders  of  the 
Rialto. 


THE  CA'  D'ORO 

MAX  DOUMIC 

THIS  little  palace  on  the  Grand  Canal  known  as  the 
Ca'  d'Oro1  is  one  of  the  most  charming  buildings 
in  Venice.     It  is  one  of  the  most  striking  speci- 
mens of  that  Venetian  architecture  which  is  the  result  of  so 
many  different  influences  that  you  can  find  neither  laws  nor 
principles,   and   which,   though   often   disconcerting,   always 
charms,  perhaps  indeed  because  it  is  subject  to  neither  laws 
nor  principles  and  permits  the  eye  to  be  fascinated  idly  by 
the  harmony  of  the  design  and  the  colour. 

The  history  of  the  Ca'  d'Oro  is  very  obscure,  at  least  its 
early  history.  It  is  thought  that  it  received  its  name  from 
the  fact  that  its  ornaments  were  originally  gilded,  traces  of 
gilding  being  still  found  on  the  little  lions  that  decorate  the 
corners  of  the  roof.  Then  others  have  attributed  this  ap- 
pellation to  the  admiring  tribute  of  a  people  possessed  of  a 
lively  and  poetic  imagination.  It  seems  far  more  probable, 
however,  that  this  palace  was  built  by  the  Doro  family,  and 
that  this  family  becoming  extinct  in  1355  with  Nicola  Doro, 
condemned  to  death  for  having  been  concerned  in  Marino 
Faliero's  conspiracy,  popular  tradition,  while  preserving  the 
name  of  the  palace,  changed  the  origin  of  the  name.  This 
hypothesis  seems  to  be  confirmed  by  those  golden  lions  which 

1  Ca  d'Oro  is  the  abbreviation  of  Casa  d'Oro,  the  golden  house. 
99 


ioo  VENICE 

ornament  the  fagade,  for  the  arms  of  the  Doro  family  was  a 
golden  lion  on  a  silver  field. 

After  the  sentence  of  Nicola  Doro,  his  palace  was  con- 
fiscated by  the  Republic.  It  is  supposed  that  it  was  given  as 
a  present  to  Pandolfe  Malatesta,  lord  of  Rimini,  for  it  is 
well  known  that  the  Senate  gave  him  a  palace  after  he  had 
ceded  his  seigniory  to  the  Republic,  and  moreover,  Pandolfe's 
shield  is  found  over  a  stairway  leading  to  the  second  floor 
in  the  Ca'  d'Oro.  Official  deeds  tell  us  that  this  palace  be- 
longed to  the  Contarini  and  then  to  the  Marcello,  and  about 
the  middle  of  the  Seventeenth  Century  it  passed  to  the  Betti- 
gnoli  family.  In  the  Nineteenth  Century  the  celebrated 
Taglioni  lived  in  it. 

The  architecture  of  the  Ca'  d'Oro  has  afforded  much  play 
to  the  imagination  of  archaeologists,  who,  finding  so  many 
styles  and  influences  here  are  too  puzzled  to  classify  it  and 
dare  not  assign  a  date.  In  truth  it  is  better  not  to  fix  a  date 
for  it  and  not  to  try  to  classify  it  at  all.  It  is  one  of  those  old 
buildings  that  have  been  successively  transformed  by  differ- 
ent generations:  Time  has  covered  these  changes  with  its 
marvellous  rust  made  of  sunshine  and  dew  and  has  harmon- 
ised them  into  a  magnificent  spectacle,  and  we  ought  to  ad- 
mire this  spectacle  as  we  admire  a  landscape  without  inquiring 
how  it  is  made,  and  as  we  admire  flowers  without  asking  the 
age  of  the  tree  that  bears  them  nor  the  tissues  of  which  they 
are  composed.  The  Ca'  d'Oro  is  of  this  class,  and  we  will 
now  see  how  we  are  reduced  to  hypotheses  as  soon  as  we 
begin  to  analyse  it. 


THE   CA'  D'ORO  101 

We  are  struck  by  the  lack  of  symmetry  in  this  little  palace 
composed  of  two  parts  in  juxtaposition,  one  of  which  is  all 
open-work  and  the  other  gives  the  impression  of  a  solid  wall ; 
we  seek  for  an  axis  and  it  has  been  supposed  that  in  the  orig- 
inal plan  the  doors  were  intended  to  be  in  the  centre  of  the 
composition  and  should  be  flanked  on  the  left  by  a  wing  simi- 
lar to  that  which  exists  on  the  right,  and  that  on  account  of 
lack  of  money  or  difficulties  with  the  neighbours,  this  wing 
was  never  built.  This  is  hardly  possible.  It  is  difficult  to 
admit  that  such  a  palace  would  have  been  constructed  until  all 
the  necessary  ground  was  acquired.  If  we  hold  to  the  idea 
that  the  plan  was  originally  a  symmetrical  conception,  we  may 
suppose,  on  the  contrary,  that  it  originally  had  two  wings. 
We  know  that  the  Contarini  sold  one  part  of  their  palace 
to  Alvise  Loredano  and  another  part  to  the  Marcello;  the 
left  wing  would  therefore  be  separated,  and,  passing  to  other 
owners,  might  have  disappeared  in  the  Seventeenth  Century 
to  make  room  for  a  new  building.  These,  however,  are  only 
conjectures  made  according  to  modern  ideas.  In  the  Middle 
Ages,  in  Venice,  as  in  France,  they  never  thought  of  com- 
posing a  facade  according  to  any  determined  order;  every- 
body planned  his  house  according  to  his  individual  needs, 
and  the  fagade  was  the  natural  expression  of  the  interior 
arrangement.  Examples  are  not  lacking  in  Venice;  the  large 
windows  that  ornament  the  fagades  of  the  Doge's  Palace  on 
the  Piazzetta  and  on  the  Riva  degli  Schiavoni  have  no  axis 
and  the  other  bays  are  not  symmetrically  disposed.  There 
is  every  reason  to  believe  that  the  Ca'  d'Oro  never  was  sym- 


102  VENICE 

metrical,  and  that  its  architects  did  not  consider  its  lack 
of  symmetry  a  defect. 

And  now  what  style  shall  we  connect  it  with?  At  the 
first  glance  we  discover  that  the  ground  floor  is  of  the 
Twelfth  Century;  the  first  of  the  Thirteenth,  and  the 
second  of  the  Fourteenth;  but  this  division  is  far  from  being 
clear.  The  composition  will  not  permit  us  to  admit  that 
the  palace  is  made  of  scraps  of  all  kinds;  we  feel  a  style 
subsisting  under  all  the  changes;  however,  it  is  certain  that 
the  arches  of  the  ground  floor  are  not  of  the  character 
as  the  capital  they  surmount,  and  the  same  thing  occurs 
on  the  loggia  of  the  second  floor.  In  fact,  this  palace  must 
date  from  the  Twelfth  Century,  perhaps  the  Eleventh,  but 
it  was  altered  and  almost  entirely  remodelled  in  the  suc- 
ceeding centuries.  Of  the  original  building  only  a  few 
bits  are  left;  the  capitals  of  the  loggia  on  the  ground  floor, 
some  of  the  balustrades  and  certain  details  of  sculpture  that 
are  imbedded  in  the  walls  of  the  wing.  As  for  the  shafts 
of  the  columns,  they  must  have  come  from  older  buildings, 
to  judge  by  the  diversity  of  marbles  they  exhibit:  marbles 
from  Greece,  brocatello  and  paronazzetto.  The  gallery  of 
the  first  floor,  dating  from  the  Thirteenth  Century,  is  the 
most  perfect  part,  but  it  has  been  changed;  the  corners  of 
the  mouldings  instead  of  turning  round  naturally,  as  they 
do  in  the  upper  part,  are  brusquely  and  awkwardly  cut,  and 
are  spoiled  by  the  neighbouring  windows  which  seem  to  have 
been  enlarged.  The  columns  of  the  gallery  on  the  second 
floor  are  crowned  by  arches  that  are  thin  in  design,  dry 


THE   CA'  D'ORO  103 

and  out  of  scale.  The  old  cornice  has  been  mutilated,  but 
the  few  traces  that  remain  of  it  show  that  it  was  made  under 
the  Arab  influence,  in  imitation  of  the  stalactitic  cornices. 

And  so  the  architecture  of  the  Ca'  d'Oro  has  followed 
the  history  of  Venetian  architecture  itself.  It  is  certain 
that  this  palace  was  in  its  full  splendour  in  the  Thirteenth 
Century,  and  if  we  have  the  right  to  regret  anything  at 
all,  it  is  that  it  has  not  survived  as  it  was  during  this  period. 

Is  it  necessary  to  add  that  here,  as  elsewhere,  the  most 
recent  transformations  have  been  the  most  unhappy?  These 
are  the  projecting  balconies  that  cut  the  ensemble  and  dis- 
figure it,  and  the  two  twin  windows  with  which  the  ground 
floor  of  the  wing  has  been  pierced. 


THE  FONDACO  DEI  TURCHI  AND  THE 
FONDACO  DEI  TEDESCHI 

CHARLES  YRIARTE 

FROM  the  Thirteenth  Century,  the  Venetians  had 
acquired  such  progress  in  commerce  and  had  made 
such  numerous  treaties  with  the  peoples  of  Europe 
and  Asia  that  at  certain  periods  the  city  was  filled  with 
strangers,  attracted  by  exchange  and  commerce  and  who 
were  entertained  by  their  business  acquaintances.  The  Sen- 
ate anxious  to  develop  everything  that  might  contribute  to 
the  glory  or  wealth  of  Venice  wished  to  facilitate  the 
sojourn  of  all  these  strangers  by  establishing  fondachi,  or 
caravanserais,  where  they  might  be  lodged  gratuitously  by 
presenting  themselves  to  special  magistrates,  whose  duty 
was  to  establish  their  identity  and  importance.  The  Ger- 
mans were  the  first  to  have  their  Fondaco,  which  was  situated 
on  the  Rialto  itself  and  many  times  rebuilt,  and  of  which, 
unfortunately  only  a  mass  of  modern  and  characterless 
appearance  is  now  to  be  seen. 

Three  nobles,  with  the  title  of  Vis  Domini,  presided  over 
the  administration  of  establishments  of  this  kind;  there  was 
a  public  weigher  who  took  note  of  the  weights  and  nature 
of  the  merchandise  and  classified  it  in  the  warehouses  that 
belonged  to  the  Fondaco.  This  was  on  the  same  principle 
as  our  docks  with  the  exception  that  the  owners  of  the 
104 


FOND  AGO   DEI   TURCHI        105 

cargo  were  lodged  in  the  building  itself  at  the  expense  of  the 
State.  Next  in  importance  to  the  weigher  came  the  Fon- 
ticaio,  or  keeper  of  the  building.  In  this  same  Thirteenth 
Century  the  Armenians  were  also  favoured  by  the  govern- 
ment; but  a  certain  Marco  Ziani,  nephew  of  the  Doge 
Sebastian,  who  had  a  deep  affection  for  them,  because  his 
family  had  lived  in  Armenia  for  a  long  time,  bequeathed 
to  them  his  palace,  the  Ziani  Palace,  in  the  street  of  San 
Giuliano. 

The  Moors  also  had  their  Fondaco,  near  the  Madonna 
del  Orto  on  the  Campo  dei  Mori,  where  a  number  of  houses 
enriched  with  carvings  of  camels  bearing  merchandise  and 
figures  in  Moorish  costume  may  yet  be  seen. 

The  Turks,  in  the  Seventeenth  Century  received  for 
their  share  that  superb  palace  on  the  Grand  Canal  which 
still  bears  the  name  Fondaco  dei  Turchi,  and  which  the 
city  has  restored  as  the  civic  Correr  Museum;  this  palace, 
one  of  the  oldest  and  most  curious  in  Venice,  and  which 
must  be  contemporary  with  the  Ducal  Palace  and  the  faqade 
of  St.  Mark's  facing  the  lagoon,  belonged  to  the  Duke  of 
Ferrara;  but  long  before  this,  from  the  Fourteenth  Cen- 
tury, the  Turks  had  been  provided  for  by  the  State  in  the 
street  called  Canareggio,  and  later  in  that  of  San  Giovanni 
e  Paolo,  near  the  statue  of  Colleoni,  one  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful spots  in  Venice,  where  the  wonderful  church  of  San 
Giovanni  e  Paolo  stands.  But  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that 
these  Turks,  so  useful  from  a  commercial  point  of  view,  were 
infidels,  therefore  the  windows  of  their  fondaco  were  or- 


106  VENICE 

dered  to  be  walled  up;  the  rooms  were  lighted  from  an 
interior  patio;  an  enclosing  wall  was  erected,  the  two  corner 
turrets,  which  might  serve  for  defence,  were  razed,  and  a 
Catholic  warder  was  stationed  there  who  shut  the  doors 
at  sunset.  Women  and  children  were  forbidden  to  cross 
the  threshold,  arms  and  powder  were  deposited  in  a  safe  place 
in  front  of  the  entrance;  and  finally,  to  complete  this  series 
of  prohibitions,  it  was  forbidden  to  lodge  an  Ottoman  in 
the  city. 

The  Tuscans,  who,  as  every  one  knows,  were  great  mer- 
chants, and  had  become  very  wealthy  by  means  of  their 
banks  and  counting-houses,  had  their  Fondaco  on  the  Rialto; 
and  the  people  of  Lucca  had  theirs  in  the  Via  Bissa,  in 
that  part  of  town  lying  between  the  Rialto  and  San  Giovanni 
Crisostomo. 

The  Greeks  and  Syrians  were  so  numerous  and  on  such 
good  terms  with  the  Venetians,  that  they  lived  all  over  the 
city.  As  for  the  Jews,  who  could  not  be  excluded  because 
of  their  peculiar  aptitude  for  trade,  they  had  been  subjected 
to  innumerable  restrictions.  As  early  as  the  Sixth  Century 
they  had  arrogated  the  monopoly  of  money-changing,  and 
the  greater  number  of  the  princes,  considering  their  own 
interests,  encouraged  them  to  live  in  their  cities.  In  the 
Thirteenth  Century,  the  Lombards  and  the  Florentines  had 
in  their  turn  succeeded  in  getting  the  monopoly  of  large  trans- 
actions; envy  arose  against  those  who  were  amassing  and 
preserving  such  immense  wealth;  and  finally  the  spirit  of 
the  Crusades,  in  awaking  Christian  sentiment,  had  also 


FOND  AGO  DEI   TURCHI        107 

excited  public  animosity  against  the  Jews;  Venice  remained 
open  to  them  and  in  profiting  from  this  they  perhaps  abused 
this  privilege,  for  we  soon  find  them  forced  to  take  refuge 
at  Mestre,  the  little  country  where  to-day  the  railways 
from  the  north  and  south  converge  to  enter  Venice.  But 
banks  properly  speaking  did  not  yet  exist;  pawn-shops  were 
not  known,  and,  consequently,  with  a  view  to  developing 
petty  as  well  as  large  commercial  interests  and  of  encour- 
aging business  generally,  the  Senate  decided  to  re-admit  the 
Jews  to  the  city.  The  time  of  their  sojourn  was  limited, 
and  they  were  compelled  to  wear  a  mark  by  which  they 
could  be  recognised,  which  at  first  consisted  of  a  piece  of 
yellow  material  sewn  on  the  breast,  for  which  afterwards 
a  yellow  bonnet  was  substituted  and  later  a  bonnet  the 
upper  part  of  which  was  covered  with  red.  They  were  for- 
bidden to  buy  houses,  lands  or  even  furniture,  or  to  practice 
noble  arts  (except,  indeed,  medicine).  Cruel  to  these  men, 
whom  they  sought  out  for  their  proverbial  intelligence  and 
by  whose  abilities  they  profited,  the  Senate  assigned  them, 
as  at  Rome,  a  special  district  to  live  in,  the  Corte  delle 
Galli,  between  the  streets  of  San  Girolamo  and  San  Geremia ; 
they  also  gave  it  the  customary  name  of  Ghetto.  They 
were  obliged  to  pay  dearly  even  for  this  unhealthy  abode, 
and  a  wall  was  built  around  it  to  separate  them  from  other 
citizens;  they  were  exactly  in  the  position  that  the  Jews  of 
Morocco  are  in  to-day,  forced  to  close  their  doors  from 
sunrise  to  sunset,  and  with  two  Catholic  warders  paid  out 
of  their  own  money  to  keep  watch  over  the  place.  On 


108  VENICE 

holidays  they  were  strictly  forbidden  to  go  out.  Two  armed 
ships  guarded  their  outlets  to  the  sea.  They  could  not 
have  a  synagogue  in  Venice  and  were  forced  to  go  to 
Mestre,  and  for  their  burial-ground,  they  were  grudgingly 
accorded  an  arid  strip  of  beach  on  the  lagoon. 

We  are,  however,  not  concerned  with  the  condition  of 
the  Jews  in  Venice,  but  merely  with  their  commercial  rela- 
tions towards  the  subjects  of  the  Republic;  let  us,  therefore, 
return  to  the  fondachi,  or  residences  granted  by  the  State 
to  the  representatives  of  foreign  trade.  Two  fondachi  have 
become  famous  and  still  remain  in  existence:  that  of  the 
Turks  and  that  of  the  Germans.  The  Fondaco  del  Turchi 
still  stands  to-day  on  the  Grand  Canal,  at  San  Giacomo 
dell'  Orio. 

Those  who  visited  Venice  thirty  years  ago,  must  have 
noticed,  when  going  along  the  Grand  Canal,  this  ancient 
building  with  its  open  loggia  on  the  first  story,  ornamented 
with  marble  columns  having  Byzantine  capitals.  This  an- 
tique fagade,  entirely  covered  with  slabs  of  Greek  marble 
and  encrusted  with  circular  escutcheons,  was  falling  into 
ruin,  and  earth  and  moss  were  filling  the  interstices.  During 
the  long  hours  of  the  day,  the  Turkish  custodian  who  still 
lived  there,  might  be  seen  silently  leaning  against  the  last 
arch  of  the  loggia  in  Oriental  immobility,  indifferent 
to  the  gondolas  passing  and  repassing  and  upon  which 
his  eye  rested  without  noticing  them.  A  poet,  unac- 
quainted with  that  Oriental  indifference,  which  looks  like 
reverie  and  which  does  not  engender  a  single  dream,  would 


FOND  AGO  DEI  TURCHI        109 

have  said  that  his  eyes  were  full  of  sorrow,  and  that  he 
was  musing  on  the  Past  and  of  the  ancient  glory  of  Venice. 
This  building,  known  by  the  name  of  Fondaco  dei  Turchi, 
was  built  in  the  Thirteenth  Century  by  the  family  of  the 
Palmieri  of  Pesaro.  Pietro  Pesaro,  the  last  embassador  of 
the  Venetian  Republic  at  Rome  and  the  last  of  his  name, 
could  not  bear  to  see  the  downfall  of  his  country,  and  died 
in  exile.  The  Pesaro  were  not  always  masters  of  this  build- 
ing. In  1331,  it  was  bought  by  the  Republic  and  given  to 
the  Marquises  of  Este,  lords  of  Briare.  Later,  when  they 
became  the  Dukes  of  Este,  they  gave  in  this  building  those 
splendid  fetes  in  which  Ariosto  and  Tasso  figured. 

Pope  Clement  VIII.  took  possession  of  the  beautiful  do- 
mains of  the  Dukes  of  Ferrara,  and  gave  them  to  his  nephew, 
Cardinal  Aldobrandini,  who,  in  1618,  sold  them  to  Antonio 
Priuli,  Doge  of  Venice.  The  Republic,  seeking  a  favour- 
able locality  for  the  sale  of  Turkish  merchandise,  hired 
Antonio  Priuli's  palace,  which  thus  became  the  residence 
of  the  Turks  and  the  depot  of  their  merchandise.  Extremely 
severe  laws  regulated  its  establishment.  Finally,  the  Fon- 
daco came  back  into  the  possession  of  the  Pesaro,  Maria 
Prioli  having  bought  it  as  a  dowry  to  her  husband  Leonardo 
Pesaro,  Procurator  of  St.  Mark's.  The  last  descendant 
of  the  Pesaro  bequeathed  the  Fondaco  dei  Turchi  to  the 
Count  Leonardo  Marini,  his  nephew,  who  sold  it  in  1828 
to  a  contractor,  who,  in  his  turn,  ceded  it  in  1859  to  the 
city  of  Venice,  which  is  now  the  owner.  Count  Sagredo, 
a  Senator,  was  the  first  to  become  interested  in  this  palace. 


no  VENICE 

He  wrote  an  excellent  monograph  upon  it,  in  which  the 
portions  relating  to  art  were  treated  by  the  skilful  architect 
Frederic  Berchet,  who  with  great  care  and  true  feeling, 
proposed  plans  for  restoring  it.  The  commission  under 
the  direction  of  the  first  Count  Alessandro  Marcello,  and 
then  of  Count  Luigi  Benito,  welcomed  the  project;  the 
latter  began  the  execution  of  it,  which  was  carried  on  with 
precision  and  promptitude.  In  addition  to  the  Chevalier 
Berchet,  who  made  a  great  reputation  for  himself  by  this 
work,  we  should  mention  the  superintendent  of  the  work, 
Sebastian  Cadet,  and  the  sculptor,  Jacopo  Spura,  who  re- 
stored the  ancient  marbles  and  preserved  all  their  artistic 
distinction.  After  so  many  vicissitudes,  this  ancient  build- 
ing, so  intelligently  restored,  is  now  to  remain  forever  the 
Museum  of  Venice. 

The  Fondaco  of  the  Germans  (Fondaco  dei  Tedeschi), 
has  been  so  disfigured  by  successive  restorations  that  it  is 
necessary  to  consult  history  and  also  to  make  an  effort  of 
the  imagination,  before  you  can  bring  yourself  to  give  atten- 
tion to  this  large  and  massive  palace,  deprived  of  ornamen- 
tation, without  elegance  of  form  and  without  proportion, 
that  rises  on  the  left  of  the  Rialto  Bridge  coming  from  the 
railway.  Tradition  says  that  at  the  beginning  of  the  Six- 
teenth Century,  its  exterior  was  splendidly  decorated  with 
frescoes  from  the  brushes  of  Giorgione  and  Titian.  This 
is  the  first  we  hear  of  (jiorgione's  name  as  the  decorator 
of  the  exterior  of  a  palace;  but  as  the  Senate  d'ordine  pub- 
blico  had  decided  to  ornament  the  fondaco,  it  is  quite  certain 


FONDACO  DEI   TURCHI        in 

that  the  famous  Barbarelli,  that  great  poet  of  colour  and 
form,  would  have  been  employed.  It  would  be  interesting 
to  search  the  official  records  in  the  archives  of  the  Frari 
for  the  financial  accounts  of  the  Fondaco,  which  should 
certainly  be  there,  and  learn  if  really  these  great  lords  and 
politicians  employed  Giorgione's  genius  for  this  work.  But 
without  turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  archives,  we  may 
accept  the  assertions  of  the  great  writers  and  the  mono- 
graphs on  Venice,  that  speak  of  having  still  in  their  time 
seen  this  splendid  decoration,  defaced  and  ruined  indeed, 
but  still  showing  the  incontestable  marks  of  this  master's 
genius.  Selvatico  has  left  an  account  of  the  Fondaco  dei 
Tedeschi ;  he  attributes  this  building  to  Fra  Giocondo,  the 
famous  Dominican  who  built  the  Consular  Palace  at  Verona, 
and  the  Chateau  de  Gaillon  in  Normandy,  one  fagade  of 
which  has  been  transported  to  the  court  of  the  ficole  des 
Beaux-Arts  in  Paris.  It  seems  that  from  time  immemorial 
the  Fondaco  existed  on  its  present  site,  and  when,  in  1540, 
a  considerable  fire  destroyed  the  building,  the  Senate,  anx- 
ious to  show  its  interest  in  the  cause  of  commerce  in  general, 
and  also  for  a  nation  to  which  Venice  had  been  bound  by 
close  commercial  relations  for  many  centuries,  ordered  that 
a  new  building  of  a  regular  form  should  be  rebuilt.  But, 
if  Selvatico  pretends  that  Fra  Giocondo  was  the  architect 
chosen  by  the  Signory,  other  documents  show  that  Giro- 
lamo  Tedesco  was  given  the  order.  After  describing  the 
building  and  its  position  on  the  Grand  Canal,  with  its  en- 
trance to  the  sea  and  its  flight  of  stairs  on  the  water  for 


ii2  VENICE 

unloading  the  merchandise,  Selvatico  expresses  himself  in 
words  that  leave  no  doubt  as  to  the  richness  of  the  decora- 
tion :  "  The  profile  of  the  windows  is  poor,  but  they  are 
arranged  symmetrically  enough  to  produce  a  simple  and 
noble  effect;  and  indeed  they  needed  no  further  ornament, 
since  all  the  plain  parts  of  the  walls  were  covered  with 
splendid  frescoes  by  Giorgione  and  Titian,  frescoes  that 
have  been  almost  entirely  destroyed  by  the  hand  of  man 
and  the  agency  of  time  together.  At  the  two  angles  of  the 
fagade  overlooking  the  canal,  there  once  stood  two  towers, 
upon  which  might  be  read  two  important  inscriptions.  But 
a  few  years  ago,  when  the  building  was  restored,  the  two 
towers  were  overthrown,  the  inscriptions  effaced,  and  what 
is  still  more  irreparable,  two  magnificent  figures  by  Gior- 
gione which  might  be  regarded  as  the  best  preserved  of  all, 
were  destroyed." 


VIEW    FROM    THE    CAMPANILE 

HENRY  HAZARD 

Eus  ascend  the  Campanile.  This  has  its  one 
entrance  on  the  Piazza  opposite  the  Procuratie 
Vecchie.  Formerly  this  entrance  was  carefully 
guarded,  for  the  Campanile  was  to  some  degree  the  belfry 
of  the  city.  The  great  bells  at  its  summit,  which  we  shall 
presently  see,  were  charged  with  calling  the  citizens  to 
arms,  to  announce  danger  to  the  troops  and  to  inform  the 
arsenalotti  to  mount  guard.  The  possession  of  the  Cam- 
panile was  a  guarantee  of  the  security  of  the  Ducal  govern- 
ment. Therefore,  during  every  conspiracy  that  broke  out 
in  Venice,  the  conspirators  tried  to  seize  it:  some,  like 
Querini,  Tiepolo  and  Marino  Faliero,  so  as  to  ring  the 
bells;  others,  like  the  Count  of  Bedemar,  to  be  assured  of 
their  silence.  But,  it  is  quite  remarkable  that  neither  one 
nor  the  other  was  able  to  succeed  in  this  plan:  the  Cam- 
panile remained  ever  faithful  to  those  whom  its  mission 
was  to  protect. 

The  first  platform,  the  one  in  which  the  bells  are  found, 
is  eighty  metres  high.  But  do  not  be  alarmed;  the  ascent 
is  not  very  fatiguing.  The  Campanile  in  reality  is  com- 
posed of  two  square  towers  placed  one  upon  another  joined 
by  a  flight  of  stairs  of  easy  slope  and  which  has  but  one 
step  at  each  turn.  It  is  a  passage  of  slight  inclination  upon 
113 


n4  VENICE 

which  you  could  mount  on  horseback  and  climb  up  to 
the  very  top  by  this  means  more  easily  and  with  less  risks 
than  the  gondolier  Santo.  However,  let  us  hasten  to  re- 
mark that  it  is  hardly  out  of  consideration  for  those  quad- 
rupeds almost  unknown  in  Venice,  that  the  Campanile  was 
thus  constructed.  Neither  was  it  for  the  poor  ecclesiastics 
who  had  to  expiate  their  crimes  midway  up  the  monument, 
for  they  never  went  by  this  path  to  their  aerial  prison. 
They  were  shut  up  in  a  wooden  cage  at  the  foot  of  the 
tower  and  thence  hoisted  half  way  up  to  the  summit.  Ac- 
customed to  all  kinds  of  intemperance,  they  now  had  no 
provision  but  bread  and  water,  and  were  left  for  long 
months  in  this  place  to  meditate  upon  the  fragility  of  human 
dignity  and  to  contemplate  at  their  pleasure  the  splendours 
of  nature.  Then  they  were  brought  down  to  receive  some 
fresh  provisions  and  taken  back  again  until  they  had  ex- 
piated their  transgressions.  But  while  chattering,  we  have 
reached  the  first  platform.  Attention  now! 

First  we  are  dazzled!  This  is  certainly  one  of  the  most 
marvellous  panoramas  in  the  whole  world  that  suddenly 
breaks  upon  us.  Let  us  first  look  at  the  Adriatic  side:  at 
our  feet  is  the  Ducal  Palace,  the  old  Library,  the  Riva  degli 
Schiavoni,  and  the  Zecca;  all  these  are  embraced  in  one 
glance,  but  so  small  indeed  that  the  buildings  look  like 
marble  coffers  whose  covers  are  plated  with  lead,  and  the 
large  columns  of  the  Piazzetta,  with  the  lion  and  saint  sur- 
mounting them,  appear  to  be  two  granite  ninepins,  or  still 
better  two  pieces  borrowed  from  a  huge  chess-board.  AH 


VIEW  FROM  CAMPANILE      115 

around  us  we  perceive  restless  movement  like  a  swarm  of 
ants, — these  are  the  promenaders  enjoying  the  freshness  of 
the  morning;  then  on  the  water  black  blots  with  red  cen- 
tres,— these  are  the  barks  that  are  crowding  each  other  the 
whole  length  of  the  Piazzetta.  Farther  away  the  gondolas 
spin  over  the  emerald  sea  leaving  a  silvery  track  behind 
them,  and  from  this  height  you  would  say  that  they  are 
insects  that  are  skimming  over  the  surface  of  the  water. 

Still  further  away,  the  island  of  San  Giorgio  Maggiore, 
with  its  elegant  church  and  its  heavy  barracks,  has  the 
look  of  ship  stranded  at  the  port  of  entrance.  Its  marble 
fagade,  its  round  dome,  and  its  rose-coloured  walls  com- 
placently reflect  themselves  in  the  transparent  waves  which 
come  to  leave  the  print  of  their  wet  green  kisses  upon  its 
white  steps. 

To  the  right,  the  Giudecca  winds  majestically,  display- 
ing its  granite  quays,  its  variegated  roofs,  its  houses  and 
its  churches.  Nearer  the  Dogana  di  Mare  advances  proudly 
into  the  sea.  Its  columns,  its  statues  and  its  golden  dome 
which  glitters  in  the  sunshine  gloriously  mark  the  entrance 
to  the  Grand  Canal ;  and  behind  it,  the  Salute,  with  its 
elegant  dome,  its  enormous  volutes  and  its  marble  steps, 
seems  to  watch  over  the  health  of  the  city. 

To  the  left  is  that  marvellous  horn  that  we  have  admired 
when  coming  in  from  the  Adriatic.  Formed  by  the  Riva 
degli  Schiavoni  and  the  palaces  that  border  it,  then  by  the 
Ca  di  Dio  and  San  Bragio  quays,  with  their  picturesque 
dwellings,  it  is  terminated  by  the  public  garden  which  lifts 


n6  VENICE 

up  its  great  round  masses  of  foliage  and  its  green  cones 
behind  a  marble  balustrade.  This  mass  of  verdure  worthily 
ends  this  superb  promontory  and  majestically  shuts  out  the 
horizon;  and  this  great  basin,  with  its  girdle  of  temples 
and  palaces  has  the  appearance  of  a  magic  cup  filled  to  the 
brim  with  joy  and  pleasure.  Then  beyond  this  enclosure 
of  marble  and  verdure  extends  the  immense  lagoon,  with 
San  Lazzaro,  and  the  old  Lazaret,  Santa  Elena,  and  Santa 
Elisabetta,  the  Grazia,  San  Spirito  and  San  Clemente,  gaily 
situated  in  the  midst  of  green  waves.  And  farther  away, 
indeed  quite  far,  behind  Malamocco  and  its  narrow  littrorale, 
behind  Pelestrina,  which  is  lost  in  the  mist,  the  Adriatic 
with  its  tender  reflections,  with  its  undecided  horizon,  the 
Adriatic  of  an  indescribable  sweetness,  forms  the  back- 
ground of  this  superb  picture. 

Let  us  take  a  look  on  the  other  side  now.  If  the  spectacle 
is  less  beautiful,  less  pompous  and  less  splendid,  it  is  not  less 
interesting.  Here  is  a  mass  of  red  and  grey  roofs,  a  large 
collection  of  tiles,  slate  and  lead  an  inextricable  confusion 
of  lines  that  cross  and  mingle  and  cut  one  another  in  every 
sense.  To  see  such  a  number  of  houses  crowded  and  heaped 
together  in  such  a  narrow  space,  it  seems  that  they  must 
have  been  thrown  there  at  haphazard  without  any  order, 
systematic  plan,  or  preconceived  idea.  There  are  no  streets, 
no  canals,  no  squares.  Every  now  and  then  there  is  the 
facade  of  a  church,  the  cornice  of  a  palace,  or  the  gallery 
of  a  cloister.  Then  come  campaniles,  towers,  belfries  and 
steeples.  Do  not  try  to  count  them,  for  this  would  be  a. 


VIEW  FROM  CAMPANILE      117 

tiresome  task.  Formerly  Venice  numbered  two  hundred 
churches;  to-day,  hardly  ninety  are  in  working-order.  But 
if  the  clergy  have  departed,  the  steeples  remain,  and  still 
throw  their  shadows  upon  the  neighbouring  houses.  Their 
leaning  spires  dominate  the  confused  heap  of  roofs  and  ter- 
races, and  these  succeed  one  another  without  interruption 
until  the  sea  comes  brusquely  to  interrupt  everything  with 
its  silver  girdle. 

At  the  foot  of  the  Campanile  we  perceive  the  square  of 
St.  Mark's  with  its  galleries  and  promenaders,  its  white 
flags  that  look  like  a  chessboard  and  its  pigeons  that  blot 
it  with  black  spots.  Then  comes  the  church  with  its  mo- 
saics on  a  golden  background,  shining  in  the  sun,  with  all  its 
columns  and  its  swelling  dome.  Then  the  clock-tower, 
with  its  golden  lion,  its  starry  dial  and  its  bronze  giants 
that  seem  to  be  pygmies.  Those  are  tall  masts  that  seem 
to  be  rods.  Then  if  we  suddenly  lift  our  eyes  beyond  the 
houses,  palaces,  belfries  and  churches,  there  are  the  lagoons 
and  the  green  sea  with  its  silvery  reflections,  sprinkled  with 
islands,  with  Murano,  which  seems  to  be  a  miniature  Venice, 
and  with  the  cemetery  which  you  would  take  for  a  flower- 
garden.  To  the  right,  to  the  left, — everywhere,  there  are 
batteries  and  ports  to  protect  the  approaches  to  the  city. 
There  are  San  Giacomo,  Tessera  and  Campalto,  which  by 
their  crossed  fire  rendered  Venice  impregnable.  There  are 
the  batteries  of  Rossarol,  San  Antonio  and  San  Marco  which 
isolated  her  from  the  mainland  and  rendered  access  im- 
possible. 


n8  VENICE 

Beyond  the  Malghera  fort,  do  you  not  see  Mestre,  then 
Spinea,  Zellarino,  Tavaro,  Gambaraze  and  their  clock- 
towers?  And  behind,  losing  themselves  in  the  transparent 
mist,  the  bronzed  Alps  with  their  crowns  of  snow  and  the 
bluish  peaks  of  the  Vizentine  Mountains.  If  the  sky  and 
atmosphere  were  clearer,  we  could  see  the  Gulf  of  Trieste, 
the  coasts  of  Istria  and  the  Italian  coast  from  the  Po  di 
Goro  as  far  as  Tagliamento.  Perhaps,  indeed,  with  "  the 
eyes  of  faith,"  we  might  like  the  President  of  the  Brasses 
perceive  "  Epirus  and  Macedonia,  Greece,  the  Archipelago, 
Constantinople,  the  sultan's  favourite  and  His  Royal  High- 
ness toying  with  her."  But  let  us  not  complain.  It  is  this 
luminous  haze  that  gives  Venice  that  intensity  of  colour 
that  charms  us.  It  is  that  which  intercepting  the  rays  of 
the  sun  spreads  around  us  that  golden  dust.  Let  us  bless 
it  then  with  all  our  might  and  be  content  with  the  marvels 
that  unfold  beneath  our  eyes. 


ST.  MARK'S 

JOHN  RUSK  IN 

A  YARD  or  two  farther,  we  pass  the  hostelry  of  the 
Black  Eagle,  and,  glancing  as  we  pass  through  the 
square  door  of  marble,  deeply  moulded,  in  the  outer 
wall,  we  see  the  shadows  of  its  pergola  of  vines  resting  on 
an  ancient  well,  with  a  pointed  shield  carved  on  its  side; 
and  so  presently  emerge  on  the  bridge  and  Campo  San 
Moise,  whence  to  the  entrance  into  St.  Mark's  Place,  called 
the  Bocca  di  Piazza  (mouth  of  the  square),  the  Venetian 
character  is  nearly  destroyed,  first  by  the  frightful  fagade 
of  San  Moise,  and  then  by  the  modernising  of  the  shops  as 
they  near  the  Piazza,  and  the  mingling  with  the  lower 
Venetian  populace  of  lounging  groups  of  English  and  Aus- 
trians.  We  will  push  fast  through  them  into  the  shadow 
of  the  pillars  at  the  end  of  the  "  Bocca  di  Piazza,"  and  then 
we  forget  them  all;  for  between  those  pillars  there  opens 
a  great  light,  and,  in  the  midst  of  it,  as  we  advance  slowly, 
the  vast  tower  of  St.  Mark  seems  to  lift  itself  visibly  forth 
from  the  level  field  of  chequered  stones;  and,  on  each  side, 
the  countless  arches  prolong  themselves  into  ranged  sym- 
metry, as  if  the  rugged  and  irregular  houses  that  pressed 
together  above  us  in  the  dark  alley  had  been  struck  back 
into  sudden  obedience  and  lovely  order,  and  all  their  rude 
casements  and  broken  walls  had  been  transformed  into 
119 


120  VENICE 

arches  charged  with  goodly  sculpture  and  fluted  shafts  of 
delicate  stone. 

And  well  may  they  fall  back,  for  beyond  those  troops 
of  ordered  arches  there  rises  a  vision  out  of  the  earth,  and 
all  the  great  square  seems  to  have  opened  from  it  in  a  kind 
of  awe,  that  we  may  see  it  far  away ; — a  multitude  of  pillars 
and  white  domes,  clustered  into  a  long,  low  pyramid  of 
coloured  light;  a  treasure-heap,  it  seems,  partly  of  gold,  and 
partly  of  opal  and  mother-of-pearl,  hollowed  beneath  into 
five  great  vaulted  porches,  ceiled  with  fair  mosaic,  and  beset 
with  sculpture  of  alabaster,  clear  as  amber  and  delicate  as 
ivory, — sculpture  fantastic  and  involved,  of  palm  leaves  and 
lilies,  and  grapes  and  pomegranates,  and  birds  clinging  and 
fluttering  among  the  branches,  all  twined  together  into  an 
endless  network  of  buds  and  plumes;  and,  in  the  midst  of 
it,  the  solemn  forms  of  angels,  sceptred,  and  robed  to  the 
feet,  and  leaning  to  each  other  across  the  gates,  their  figures 
indistinct  among  the  gleaming  of  the  golden  ground  through 
the  leaves  beside  them,  interrupted  and  dim,  like  the  morn- 
ing light  as  it  faded  back  among  the  branches  of  Eden,  when 
first  its  gates  were  angel-guarded  long  ago.  And  round  the 
walls  of  the  porches  there  are  set  pillars  of  variegated 
stones,  jasper  and  porphyry,  and  deep-green  serpentine  spotted 
with  flakes  of  snow,  and  marbles,  that  half  refuse  and  half 
yield  to  the  sunshine,  Cleopatra-like,  "  their  bluest  veins 
to  kiss  " — the  shadow,  as  it  steals  back  from  them,  revealing 
line  after  line  of  azure  undulation,  as  a  receding  tide  leaves 
the  waved  sand;  their  capitals  rich  with  interwoven  tracery, 


ST.  MARK'S  121 

rooted  knots  of  herbage,  and  drifting  leaves  of  acanthus  and 
vine,  and  mystical  signs,  all  beginning  and  ending  in  the 
Cross;  and  above  them,  in  the  broad  archivolts,  a  continu- 
ous chain  of  language  and  of  life — angels,  and  the  signs 
of  heaven,  and  the  labours  of  men,  each  in  its  appointed 
season  upon  the  earth ;  and  above  them,  another  range  of 
glittering  pinnacles,  mixed  with  white  arches  edged  with 
scarlet  flowers, — a  confusion  of  delight,  amidst  which  the 
breasts  of  the  Greek  horses  are  seen  blazing  in  their  breadth 
of  golden  strength,  and  the  St.  Mark's  Lion,  lifted  on  a 
blue  field  covered  with  stars,  until  at  last,  as  if  in  ecstasy, 
the  crests  of  the  arches  break  into  a  marble  foam,  and 
toss  themselves  far  into  the  blue  sky  in  flashes  and  wreaths 
of  sculptured  spray,  as  if  the  breakers  on  the  Lido  shore  had 
been  frost-bound  before  they  fell,  and  the  sea-nymphs  had 
inlaid  them  with  coral  and  amethyst. 

Between  that  grim  cathedral  of  England  and  this,  what 
an  interval!  There  is  a  type  of  it  in  the  very  birds  that 
haunt  them;  for,  instead  of  the  restless  crowd,  hoarse- 
voiced  and  sable-winged,  drifting  on  the  bleak  upper  air, 
the  St.  Mark's  porches  are  full  of  doves,  that  nestle  among 
the  marble  foliage,  and  mingle  the  soft  iridescence  of  their 
living  plumes,  changing  at  every  motion  with  the  tints, 
hardly  less  lovely,  that  have  stood  unchanged  for  seven 
hundred  years. 

And  what  effect  has  this  splendour  on  those  who  pass 
beneath  it?  You  may  walk  from  sunrise  to  sunset,  to  and 
fro,  before  the  gateway  of  St.  Mark's,  and  you  will  not 


122  VENICE 

see  an  eye  lifted  to  it,  nor  a  countenance  brightened  by  it. 
Priest  and  layman,  soldier  and  civilian,  rich  and  poor,  pass 
by  it  alike  regardlessly.  Up  to  the  very  recesses  of  the 
porches,  the  meanest  tradesmen  of  the  city  push  their  coun- 
ters; nay,  the  foundations  of  its  pillars  are  themselves  the 
seats — not  "  of  them  that  sell  doves  "  for  sacrifice,  but  of 
vendors  of  toys  and  caricatures.  Round  the  whole  square 
in  front  of  the  church  there  is  almost  a  continuous  line  of 
cafes,  where  the  idle  Venetians  of  the  middle  classes 
lounge,  and  read  empty  journals;  in  its  centre  the  Aus- 
trian bands  play  during  the  time  of  vespers,  their  martial 
music  jarring  with  the  organ  notes, — the  march  drowning 
the  miserere,  and  the  .sullen  crowd  thickening  around  them, 
— a  crowd  which,  if  it  had  its  will,  would  stiletto  every  sol- 
dier that  pipes  to  it.  And  in  the  recesses  of  the  porches, 
all  day  long,  knots  of  men  of  the  lowest  classes,  unem- 
ployed and  listless,  lie  basking  in  the  sun  like  lizards;  and 
unregarded  children, — every  heavy  glance  of  their  young 
eyes  full  of  desperation  and  stony  depravity,  and  their  throats 
hoarse  with  cursing, — gamble,  and  fight,  and  snarl,  and 
sleep,  hour  after  hour,  clashing  their  bruised  centesimi  upon 
the  marble  ledges  of  the  church  porch.  And  the  images  of 
Christ  and  His  angels  look  down  upon  it  continually. 

That  we  may  not  enter  the  church  out  of  the  midst  of 
the  horror  of  this,  let  us  turn  aside  under  the  portico  which 
looks  towards  the  sea,  and  passing  round  within  the  two 
massive  pillars  brought  from  St.  Jean  d'Acre,  we  shall  find 
the  gate  of  the  Baptistery;  let  us  enter  there.  The  heavy 


ST.  MARK'S  123 

door  closes  behind  us  instantly,  and  the  light  and  the  tur- 
bulence of  the  Piazzetta,  are  together  shut  out  by  it.  Let 
us  enter  the  church  itself.  It  is  lost  in  still  deeper  twilight, 
to  which  the  eye  must  be  accustomed  for  some  moments 
before  the  form  of  the  building  can  be  traced ;  and  then 
there  opens  before  us  a  vast  cave  hewn  out  into  the  form 
of  a  Cross,  and  divided  into  shadowy  aisles  by  many  pillars. 
Round  the  domes  of  its  roof  the  light  enters  only  through 
narrow  apertures  like  large  stars;  and  here  and  there  a 
ray  or  two  from  some  far  away  casement  wanders  into  the 
darkness,  and  casts  a  narrow  phosphoric  stream  upon  the 
waves  of  marble  that  heave  and  fall  in  a  thousand  colours 
along  the  floor.  What  else  there  is  of  light  is  from  torches 
or  silver  lamps,  burning  ceaselessly  in  the  recesses  of  the 
chapels;  the  roof  sheeted  with  gold,  and  the  polished  walls 
covered  with  alabaster,  give  back  at  every  curve  and  angle 
some  feeble  gleaming  to  the  flames;  and  the  glories  round 
the  heads  of  the  sculptured  saints  flash  out  upon  us  as  we 
pass  them,  and  sink  again  into  the  gloom.  Under  foot 
and  overhead,  a  continual  succession  of  crowded  imagery, 
one  picture  passing  into  another,  as  in  a  dream;  forms  beau- 
tiful and  terrible  mixed  together;  dragons  and  serpents, 
and  ravening  beasts  of  prey,  and  graceful  birds  that  in 
the  midst  of  them  drink  from  running  fountains  and  feed 
from  vases  of  crystal;  the  passions  and  the  pleasures  of 
human  life  symbolised  together,  and  the  mystery  of  its 
redemption;  for  the  mazes  of  interwoven  lines  and  change- 
ful pictures  lead  always  at  last  to  the  Cross,  lifted  and 


124  VENICE 

carved  in  every  place  and  upon  every  stone;  sometimes  with 
the  serpent  of  eternity  wrapt  round  it,  sometimes  with  doves 
beneath  its  arms,  and  sweet  herbage  growing  forth  from 
its  feet;  but  conspicuous  most  of  all  on  the  great  rood  that 
crosses  the  church  before  the  altar,  raised  in  bright  blazonry 
against  the  shadow  of  the  apse.  And  although  in  the 
recesses  of  the  aisles  and  chapels,  when  the  mist  of  the 
incense  hangs  heavily,  we  may  see  continually  a  figure  traced 
in  faint  lines  upon  their  marble,  a  woman  standing  with 
her  eyes  raised  to  heaven,  and  the  inscription  above  her, 
"  Mother  of  God,"  she  is  not  here  the  presiding  deity.  It 
is  the  Cross  that  is  first  seen,  and  always,  burning  in  the 
centre  of  the  temple;  and  every  dome  and  hollow  of  its 
roof  has  the  figure  of  Christ  in  the  utmost  height  of  it,  raised 
in  power,  or  returning  in  judgment. 

Nor  is  this  interior  without  effect  on  the  minds  of  the 
people.  At  every  hour  of  the  day  there  are  groups  collected 
before  the  various  shrines,  and  solitary  worshippers  scattered 
through  the  darker  places  of  the  church,  evidently  in  prayer 
both  deep  and  reverent,  and,  for  the  most  part,  profoundly 
sorrowful.  The  devotees  at  the  greater  number  of  the  re- 
nowned shrines  of  Romanism  may  be  seen  murmuring  their 
appointed  prayers  with  wandering  eyes  and  unengaged  ges- 
tures; but  the  step  of  the  stranger  does  not  disturb  those 
who  kneel  on  the  pavement  of  St.  Mark's;  and  hardly  a 
moment  passes,  from  early  morning  to  sunset,  in  which 
we  may  not  see  some  half-veiled  figure  enter  beneath  the 
Arabian  porch,  cast  itself  into  long  abasement  on  the  floor 


ST.  MARK'S  125 

of  the  temple,  and  then  rising  slowly  with  more  confirmed 
step,  and  with  a  passionate  kiss  and  clasp  of  the  arms  given 
to  the  feet  of  the  crucifix,  by  which  the  lamps  burn  always 
in  the  northern  aisle,  leave  the  church  as  if  comforted. 

The  perception  of  colour  is  a  gift  just  as  definitely 
granted  to  one  person  and  denied  to  another  as  an  ear  for 
music;  and  the  very  first  requisite  for  true  judgment  for 
St.  Mark's,  is  the  perfection  of  that  colour-faculty  which 
few  people  ever  set  themselves  seriously  to  find  out  whether 
they  possess  or  not.  For  it  is  on  its  value  as  a  piece  of 
perfect  and  unchangeable  colouring,  th,at  the  claims  of  this 
edifice  to  our  respect  are  finally  rested ;  and  a  deaf  man 
might  as  well  pretend  to  pronounce  judgment  on  the  merits 
of  a  full  orchestra,  as  an  architect  trained  in  the  composi- 
tion of  form  only,  to  discern  the  beauty  of  St.  Mark's. 

It  would  be  easier  to  illustrate  a  crest  of  Scottish  moun- 
tain, with  its  purple  heather  and  pale  harebells  at  their 
fullest  and  fairest,  or  a  glade  of  Jura  forest,  with  its  floor 
of  anemone  and  moss,  than  a  single  portico  of  St.  Mark's. 
The  balls  in  the  archivolt  project  considerably,  and  the 
interstices  between  their  interwoven  bands  of  marble  are 
filled  with  colours  like  the  illuminations  of  a  manu- 
script; violet,  crimson,  blue,  gold,  and  green  alternately: 
but  no  green  is  ever  used  without  an  intermixture  of  blue 
pieces  in  the  mosaic,  nor  any  blue  without  a  little  centre 
of  pale  green ;  sometimes  only  a  single  piece  of  glass  a  quarter 
of  an  inch  square,  so  subtle  was  the  feeling  for  colour  which 
was  thus  to  be  satisfied.  The  intermediate  circles  have 


126  VENICE 

golden  stars  set  on  an  azure  ground,  varied  in  the  same 
manner;  and  the  small  crosses  seen  in  the  intervals  are 
alternately  blue  and  subdued  scarlet,  with  two  small  circles 
of  white  set  in  the  golden  ground  above  and  beneath  them, 
each  only  about  half  an  inch  across  (this  work,  remember, 
being  on  the  outside  of  the  building,  and  twenty  feet  above 
the  eye) ,  while  the  blue  crosses  have  each  a  pale  green  centre. 

From  the  vine-leaves  of  that  archivolt,  though  there  is 
no  direct  imitation  of  nature  in  them,  but  on  the  contrary 
a  studious  subjection  to  architectural  purpose,  we  may  yet 
receive  the  same  kind  of  pleasure  which  we  have  in  seeing 
true  vine-leaves  and  wreathed  branches  traced  upon  golden 
light;  its  stars  upon  their  azure  ground  ought  to  make  us 
remember,  as  its  builder  remembered,  the  stars  that  ascend 
and  fall  in  the  great  arch  of  the  sky:  and  I  believe  that  stars, 
and  boughs,  and  leaves,  and  bright  colours  are  everlastingly 
lovely  and  to  be  by  all  men  beloved;  and,  moreover,  that 
church  walls  grimly  seared  with  squared  lines,  are  not 
better  nor  nobler  things  than  these.  I  believe  the  man  who 
designed  and  the  men  who  delighted  in  that  archivolt  to 
have  been  wise,  happy,  and  holy. 

Now  there  is  one  circumstance  to  which  I  must  direct 
the  reader's  special  attention,  as  performing  a  notable  dis- 
tinction between  ancient  and  modern  days.  Our  eyes  are 
now  familiar  and  wearied  with  writing;  and  if  an  inscrip- 
tion was  put  upon  a  building,  unless  it  be  large  and  clear, 
it  is  ten  to  one  whether  we  ever  trouble  ourselves  to  decipher 
it.  But  the  old  architect  was  sure  of  readers.  He  knew  that 


ST.  MARK'S  127 

every  one  would  be  glad  to  decipher  all  that  he  wrote;  that 
they  would  rejoice  in  possessing  the  vaulted  leaves  of  his 
stone  manuscript;  and  that  the  more  he  gave  them,  the 
more  grateful  would  the  people  be.  We  must  take  some 
pains,  therefore,  when  we  enter  St.  Mark's,  to  read  all 
that  is  inscribed,  or  we  shall  not  penetrate  into  the  feeling 
either  of  the  builder  or  of  his  times.  On  the  vault  be- 
tween the  first  and  second  cupolas  are  represented  the 
crucifixion  and  resurrection  of  Christ,  with  the  usual  series 
of  intermediate  scenes, — the  treason  of  Judas,  the  judg- 
ment of  Pilate,  the  crowning  with  thorns,  the  descent  into 
Hades,  the  visit  of  the  women  to  the  Sepulchre,  and  the 
apparition  to  Mary  Magdalene.  The  second  cupola  itself, 
which  is  the  central  and  principal  one  of  the  church,  is 
entirely  occupied  by  the  subject  of  the  Ascension.  At  the 
highest  point  of  it  Christ  is  represented  as  rising  into  the 
blue  heaven,  borne  up  by  four  angels,  and  throned  upon  a 
rainbow,  the  type  of  reconciliation.  Beneath  him,  the  twelve 
apostles  are  seen  upon  the  Mount  of  Olives,  with  the  Ma- 
donna, and,  in  the  midst  of  them,  the  two  men  in  white 
apparel  who  appeared  at  the  moment  of  the  Ascension,  above 
whom,  as  uttered  by  them,  are  inscribed  the  words :  "  Ye 
men  of  Galilee,  why  stand  ye  gazing  up  into  heaven?  This 
Christ,  the  Son  of  God,  as  He  is  taken  from  you,  shall  so 
come,  the  arbiter  of  the  earth,  trusted  to  do  judgment  and 
justice." 

Beneath  the  circle  of  apostles,  between  the  windows  of 
the  cupola,  are  represented  the  Christian  virtues,  as  sequent 


128  VENICE 

upon  the  crucifixion  of  the  flesh,  and  the  spiritual  ascension 
together  with  Christ.  Beneath  them  on  the  vaults  which 
support  the  angles  of  the  cupola,  are  placed  the  four 
Evangelists,  because  on  their  evidence  our  assurance  of  the 
fact  of  the  ascension  rests;  and,  finally,  beneath  their  feet, 
as  symbols  of  the  sweetness  and  fulness  of  the  Gospel  which 
they  declared,  are  represented  by  the  four  rivers  of  Para- 
dise, Pison,  Gihon,  Tigris,  and  Euphrates. 

The  third  cupola,  that  over  the  altar,  represents  the  wit- 
ness of  the  Old  Testament  to  Christ;  showing  him  en- 
throned in  its  centre  and  surrounded  by  the  patriarchs  and 
prophets.  But  this  dome  was  little  seen  by  the  people; 
their  contemplation  was  intended  to  be  chiefly  drawn  to 
that  of  the  centre  of  the  church,  and  thus  the  mind  of  the 
worshipper  was  at  once  fixed  on  the  main  groundwork  and 
hope  of  Christianity — "  Christ  is  risen,"  and  "  Christ  shall 
come."  If  he  had  time  to  explore  the  minor  lateral  chapels 
and  cupolas,  he  could  find  in  them  the  whole  series  of  New 
Testament  history,  the  events  of  the  Life  of  Christ,  and  the 
Apostolic  miracles  in  their  order,  and  finally  the  scenery  of 
the  Book  of  Revelation;  but  if  he  only  entered,  as  often  the 
common  people  do  to  this  hour,  snatching  a  few  moments  be- 
fore beginning  the  labour  of  the  day  to  offer  up  an  ejacula- 
tory  prayer,  and  advanced  but  from  the  main  entrance  as  far 
as  the  altar  screen,  all  the  splendour  of  the  glittering  nave 
and  variegated  dome,  if  they  smote  upon  his  heart,  as  they 
might  often,  in  strange  contrast  with  his  reed  cabin  among 
the  shallows  of  the  lagoon,  smote  upon  it  only  that  they 


ST.  MARK'S  129 

might  proclaim  the  two  great  messages — "  Christ  is  risen," 
and  "  Christ  shall  come."  Daily,  as  the  white  cupolas  rose 
like  wreaths  of  sea-foam  in  the  dawn,  while  the  shadowy 
campanile  and  frowning  palace  were  still  withdrawn  into 
the  night,  they  rose  with  the  Easter  Voice  of  Triumph — 
"  Christ  is  risen  " ;  and  daily,  as  they  looked  down  upon 
the  tumult  of  the  people,  deepening  and  eddying  in  the  wide 
square  that  opened  from  their  feet  to  the  sea,  they  uttered 
above  them  the  sentence  of  warning, — "  Christ  shall  come." 
And  this  thought  may  surely  dispose  the  reader  to  look 
with  some  change  of  temper  upon  the  gorgeous  building 
and  wild  blazonry  of  that  shrine  of  St.  Mark's.  He  now 
perceives  that  it  was  in  the  hearts  of  the  old  Venetian  people 
far  more  than  a  place  of  worship.  It  was  at  once  a  type 
of  the  Redeemed  Church  of  God,  and  a  scroll  for  the  writ- 
ten word  of  God.  It  was  to  be  to  them,  both  an  image  of 
the  Bride,  all  glorious  within,  her  clothing  of  wrought  gold ; 
and  the  actual  Table  of  the  Law  and  the  Testimony,  writ- 
ten within  and  without.  And  whether  honoured  as  the 
Church  or  as  the  Bible,  was  it  not  fitting  that  neither  the 
gold  nor  the  crystal  should  be  spared  in  the  adornment  of 
it;  that,  as  the  symbol  of  the  Bride,  the  building  of  the 
wall  thereof  should  be  of  jasper,  and  the  foundations  of  it 
garnished  with  all  manner  of  precious  stones;  and  that,  as 
the  channel  of  the  Word,  that  triumphant  utterance  of 
the  Psalmist  should  be  true  of  it — "  I  have  rejoiced  in  the 
way  of  thy  testimonies,  as  much  as  in  all  riches  "  ?  And 
shall  we  not  look  with  changed  temper  down  the  long  per- 


1 3o  VENICE 

spective  of  St.  Mark's  Place  towards  the  sevenfold  gates 
and  glowing  domes  of  its  temple,  when  we  know  with  what 
solemn  purpose  the  shafts  of  it  were  lifted  above  the  pave- 
ment of  the  populous  square?  Men  met  there  from  all 
countries  of  the  earth,  for  traffic  or  for  pleasure;  but,  above 
the  crowd  swaying  forever  to  and  fro  in  the  restlessness 
of  avarice  or  thirst  of  delight,  was  seen  perpetually  the  glory 
of  the  temple,  attesting  to  them,  whether  they  would  hear 
or  whether  they  would  forbear,  that  there  was  one  treasure 
which  the  merchantmen  might  buy  without  a  price,  and 
one  delight  better  than  all  others,  in  the  word  and  the 
statutes  of  God.  Not  in  the  wantonness  of  wealth,  not  in 
vain  ministry  to  the  desire  of  the  eyes  or  the  pride  of  life, 
were  those  marbles  hewn  into  transparent  strength,  and 
those  arches  arrayed  in  the  colours  of  the  iris.  There  is 
a  message  written  in  the  dyes  of  them,  that  once  was 
written  in  blood ;  and  a  sound  in  the  echoes  of  their  "vaults, 
that  one  day  shall  fill  the  vault  of  heaven, — "  He  shall 
return,  to  do  judgment  and  justice."  The  strength  of 
Venice  was  given  her,  so  long  as  she  remembered  this:  her 
destruction  found  her  when  she  had  forgotten  this;  and  it 
found  her  irrevocably,  because  she  forgot  it  without  excuse. 
Never  had  city  a  more  glorious  Bible.  Among  the  nations 
of  the  North,  a  rude  and  shadowy  sculpture  filled  their 
temples  with  confused  and  hardly  legible  imagery;  but, 
for  her  the  skill  and  the  treasures  of  the  East  had  gilded 
every  letter,  and  illumined  every  page,  till  the  Book-Temple 
shone  from  afar  off  like  the  star  of  the  Magi. 


THE  SCULPTURES  ON  THE  FACADES 
OF  ST.  MARK'S 

JEAN  PAUL  RICHTER 

IN  the  following  attempt  to  investigate  the  principal 
or  west  fagade,  as  well  as  the  north  and  south  lateral 
facades  of  St.  Mark's,  it  must  be  understood,  that  no 
remarks  will  be  made  on  the  architectural  construction  and 
decorations  of  the  church,  although  it  would  not  be  im- 
possible to  enter  upon  such  a  discussion  of  this  unique 
monument  from  fresh  and  altered  points  of  view.  To 
many  among  those  who  are  accustomed  to  look  on  it  as 
a  superlative  work  of  art,  or,  it  may  be,  as  one  of  the 
"  seven  wonders  of  the  world,"  this  course  may  appear 
strange.  We  may  even  seem  to  be  straying  from  the  sub- 
ject altogether  in  thus  ignoring  architecture  when  pro- 
posing to  discuss  this  wonder  of  architecture.  In  depreca- 
tion of  such  a  charge,  I  beg  to  remark  beforehand  that  it 
is  only  a  lacuna  in  the  art  literature  relating  to  St.  Mark 
which  it  is  here  attempted  to  supply. 

A  slight  examination  of  the  reliefs  on  the  fagade  is  suf- 
ficient to  show  that  they  contain  examples  of  the  styles 
of  eight  different  centuries,  beginning  with  the  Fourth. 
Several  of  them  have  inscriptions,  but  unhappily  none  with 
the  names  of  the  artists.  Nor  do  the  numerous  descriptions 
of  St.  Mark's  which  have  been  published  give  any  clue 


132  VENICE 

whatever  to  the  origin  of  the  reliefs.  Indeed,  they  scarcely 
ever  mention  them.  F.  Sansovino,  in  his  Venetia  citta 
nobilissima,  only  says  that,  in  the  middle  of  the  Eleventh 
Century,  Selvo,  the  thirtieth  Doge,  first  covered  the  walls 
of  the  church  with  an  incrustation  of  finissimi  marmi,  and 
had  many  columns  conveyed  thither  from  Athens,  various 
islands  of  Greece  and  the  Morea.  A  more  detailed  account 
of  a  single  piece  of  Byzantine  sculpture  in  St.  Mark's  is 
given  in  the  Cronlca  Veneta,  published  in  the  year  1736, 
where  we  read  that  "  at  the  side  of  the  altar,  in  a  side 
wall  of  the  chapel  of  St.  Zeno,  is  the  marble  relief  of  the 
Madonna  with  the  Infant  Christ,  a  bas-relief  executed  alia 
Greca,  and  underneath  it  a  similar  work  in  marble,  repre- 
senting an  angel.  The  inscription  on  it  declares  that  it  was 
discovered  by  the  Emperor  Michael  Palaiologus  (1260- 
1283),  and  that  the  stone  is  alleged  to  be  the  same  out 
of  which  Moses  made  the  water  to  flow-  The  stone  was 
discovered  by  the  aforesaid  Emperor,  and  brought,  as  the 
inscription  on  it  asserts,  to  Constantinople,  from  whence  the 
Doge  Vitale  Michel  brought  it  to  Venice."  We  see  from 
this  that  after  the  completion  of  the  interior  the  Venetians 
continued  to  collect  Oriental  reliefs  for  the  adornment  of 
the  church. 

To  do  full  justice  to  the  Byzantine  sculptures  on  the 
facade  of  St.  Mark's,  we  must  first  inquire  into  their  history. 
And  since  the  printed  chronicles  and  descriptions  of  Venice 
afford  us  no  information,  we  are  compelled  to  have  recourse 
to  the  archives  of  the  Republic.  One  chronicler,  indeed,  who 


SCULPTURES  ON  ST.  MARK'S  133 

might  have  given  us  the  information  from  documentary 
evidence,  contents  himself  with  the  following  disappointing 
remark: — "  If  I  wished  to  give  the  sources  of  the  different 
reliefs  with  which  St.  Mark's  is  adorned,  I  should  be  obliged 
to  relate  the  history  of  all  the  expeditions  ever  undertaken  by 
the  Venetians." 

Unfortunately,  it  is  only  in  isolated  cases  that  we  can  now 
hazard  any  definite  conjectures  as  to  the  origin  of  these 
treasures.  Beneath  the  balustrade  which  protects  the  four 
horses  there  are  five  bas-reliefs,  placed  between  the  seven 
arches  of  the  facade.  Unequal  in  size,  they  are  also  unequal 
in  artistic  value ;  and  their  subjects  are  so  different  as  to  show 
plainly  that  it  is  only  by  chance  that  they  have  been  placed 
together.  Still  in  some  cases,  they  form  pendants.  Those, 
for  instance,  at  the  extreme  north  and  south  ends  of  the 
fagade  represent  two  of  the  Labours  of  Hercules.  In  the  one 
we  see  the  hero  in  a  mantle  hanging  down  upon  his  back; 
while  on  his  left  shoulder  lies  the  Erymanthian  wild  boar, 
which  he  is  firmly  grasping,  with  both  hands  held  up  over  his 
head.  In  the  second,  his  attitude  is  the  same,  but  he  carries 
the  hind  of  Diana.  That  these  two  mythological  representa- 
tions were  not  originally  designed  for  the  fagade  of  a  church 
is  self-evident.  Out  of  the  Twelve  Labours  of  Hercules, 
the  third  and  fourth,  following  the  customary  computation, 
have  here  been  selected,  and  we  may  assume  for  certain  that 
the  tablets  originally  belonged  to  a  complete  series  of  the 
deeds  of  the  hero.  The  remaining  pieces,  however,  are  not 
to  be  found  in  Venice;  and  from  this  we  may  conclude  that 


I34  VENICE 

the  Venetians  were  probably  not  able  to  get  possession  of  the 
entire  cycle.  Representations  of  the  Labours  of  Hercules 
are  not  uncommon  among  the  monuments  of  Greek  and 
Roman  art.  But  what  lends  a  special  and  peculiar  impor- 
tance to  the  two  tablets  in  question  is  the  style  in  which  they 
are  executed.  The  firm  drawing  of  the  outlines,  the  very 
flat  modelling,  and  the  quick  movement  of  the  figure,  at  once 
betray  the  hand  of  a  Byzantine  artist.  The  drawing  is  so 
correct,  and  the  composition  of  the  figure  so  skilful,  that  it  is 
impossible  to  assign  them  to  a  time  later  than  the  Fourth  or 
Fifth  Century  after  Christ — the  age  of  Constantine  and 
Theodosius,  when  the  traditions  of  antiquity  were  still  held 
in  honour  in  the  erection  of  public  monuments.  We  are  not 
afraid  of  being  accused  of  exaggeration  when  we  maintain 
that  no  city  of  the  East,  no  museum  in  Europe,  possesses 
Byzantine  marble-reliefs  so  exquisite  in  conception  and  exe- 
cution as  these. 

Two  other  reliefs,  depicting  subjects  from  the  ancient  my- 
thology, and  belonging  to  the  Byzantine  epoch  of  art,  are  to 
be  found  on  the  south  fagade  of  St.  Mark's.  First,  there  is  a 
woman  standing  upright,  enveloped  in  a  long  tunic  and  bear- 
ing a  crown  on  her  head.  A  palm-branch  is  visible  in  her  left 
hand,  while  her  right,  which  is  stretched  out  in  front  of  her, 
holds  a  wreath.  The  emblems  of  the  wreath  and  palm  point 
to  a  Victory,  while  the  crown  is  the  distinctive  mark  of  the 
tutelar  goddess  of  a  city.  The  figures  of  Victory  of  classic 
antiquity  are  winged,  and  are  not  so  composed  and  dignified 
in  their  bearing  as  this  Byzantine  woman,  whose  solemn  step 


SCULPTURES  ON  ST.  MARK'S  135 

recalls  the  archaic  Greek  representations  of  Pallas  Promachos. 
This  figure  can  scarcely  have  served  for  any  other  purpose, 
whether  in  Constantinople  or  any  other  capital  of  the  East, 
than  to  adorn  a  triumphal  arch.  Secondly,  on  the  same  wall 
of  the  south  fagade  is  a  relief  representing  the  sun-god  in  a 
chariot  drawn  by  three  griffins,  and  in  all  probability  dating 
from  the  Ninth  or  Tenth  Century. 

Among  the  Byzantine  sculptures  in  the  outer  walls  of  St. 
Mark's,  there  still  remain  two  which  represent  not  Christian, 
but  mythological  subjects.  These  mythological  groups  con- 
sist each  of  four  medallions.  The  scenes  depicted  in  them  are 
partly  taken  from  the  models  of  classic  antiquity,  such  as 
Amor  riding  upon  a  lion,  and  playing  the  flute;  two  eagles, 
one  fighting  with  a  snake,  the  other  seated  upon  a  hare ;  or  a 
griffin  attacking  a  deer.  Others  indicate  an  Asiatic  influence, 
such  as  the  curious  group  of  four  lions,  placed  two  and  two, 
facing  one  another,  and  with  one  head  in  common.  Another 
of  these  medallions  shows  a  boy  with  a  drawn  sword,  fighting 
a  lion;  another,  a  gazelle,  ridden  by  a  naked  man,  with  a 
sword  in  his  hand.  The  meaning  of  these  representations  is 
very  obscure,  and  they  probably  refer  to  popular  traditions 
now  fallen  into  oblivion. 

The  sculptures  referring  to  Christian  belief  are,  as  might 
be  expected,  more  numerous  than  the  mythological  repre- 
sentations on  the  fagade  of  St.  Mark's,  and  although  the 
subjects  they  contain  are  not,  in  the  majority  of  cases,  of  an 
unusual  character,  they  nevertheless  require  very  careful 
consideration,  being  almost  the  only  examples  preserved  to  us 


136  VENICE 

of  an  art  the  monuments  of  which  are  rarely  to  be  met  with 
elsewhere.  The  principal  doorway  is  ornamented  by  two 
bas-reliefs  let  into  the  wall,  one  on  each  side,  and  at  first 
sight  exactly  alike.  Each  shows  a  knight,  clad  in  a  Byzan- 
tine coat-of-mail,  and  seated  upon  a  kind  of  throne,  with  a 
sword  across  his  lap,  which  he  is  in  the  act  of  drawing  out 
of  the  scabbard.  They  are  St.  Demetrius,  pro-consul  and 
martyr  of  Saloniki,  and  St.  George,  the  canonised  slayer  of 
the  dragon,  who  suffered  martyrdom  in  Nicomedia. 

Of  Byzantine  reliefs  containing  single  figures,  there  are  to 
be  found  on  the  principal  facade  of  St.  Mark's  only  a  Ma- 
donna and  a  figure  of  the  archangel  Michael.  These  too, 
both  in  execution  and  conception,  have  a  character  entirely 
their  own,  and  diverse  from  Western  art.  Whether  we  go 
to  the  painting  of  Cimabue  at  Santa  Croce  in  Florence;  or 
to  the  two  world-renowned  pictures  of  the  archangel  by 
Raphael,  in  the  Salon  Carre  of  the  Louvre ;  or  to  the  equally 
popular  painting  by  Guido,  in  the  church  of  the  Capuchins  at 
Rome,  Michael  is  always  the  same  mighty  hero,  with  foot 
advanced,  trampling  beneath  him  the  dragon  of  the  ancient 
mythology,  transfixed  in  head  or  neck  by  the  spear.  In  the 
Byzantine  relief  of  St.  Mark's,  on  the  contrary,  the  arch- 
angel stands  before  us  in  solemn  repose,  as  though  awaiting 
the  command  of  his  Lord.  Two  mighty  wings  are  visible 
on  his  shoulders;  his  right  hand  grasps  a  globe  with  a  cross 
upon  it,  the  symbol  of  the  earth ;  his  left,  a  sceptre,  or  rather 
herald's  staff,  such  as  we  find  borne  by  the  messengers  of 
princes  as  early  as  Homer. 


SCULPTURES  ON  ST.  MARK'S  137 

No  less  interesting,  even  though  unimportant  from  an 
artistic  point  of  view,  is  the  figure  of  the  Madonna,  which 
probably  dates  from  about  the  Sixth  Century.  She  is  not 
associated  with  the  infant  Christ,  but  stands  alone,  upright, 
and  stretching  out  both  her  arms  in  prayer,  in  the  act  of 
offering  up  intercession  for  those  who  commend  themselves 
to  her  protection.  This  conception  is  entirely  in  accordance 
with  the  fresco  paintings  of  the  early  Christian  catacombs. 

Among  the  single  figures  of  the  south  fagade,  the  most 
prominent  are  the  four  Evangelists,  of  almost  life  size.  They 
are  apparently  productions  of  the  Byzantine  art  of  the 
Fifth  Century.  In  their  conception  and  execution  there  is 
nothing  extraordinary.  The  Evangelists  are  continually 
occurring  in  Byzantine  art,  especially  in  illuminated  man- 
uscripts. But  if  we  compare  these  with  the  reliefs,  it  is  at 
once  evident  that  from  an  artistic  point  of  view  the  latter  are 
far  superior  to  all  other  representations  of  the  same  subject. 
Nothing  can  be  more  natural  than  the  solemn  deliberation 
with  which  these  holy  men  are  here  writing  down  their  nar- 
ratives. The  parchment  roll  or  book  in  which  they  write, 
lies,  in  Oriental  fashion,  upon  their  knees.  John  is  not,  as 
in  Western  representations,  a  youth ;  but  an  old  man  with  a 
long  beard ;  for  according  to  the  tradition  of  the  Church,  he 
wrote  his  Gospel  in  extreme  old  age,  and  the  Apocalypse  in 
his  earlier  years;  and  accordingly,  in  the  representation  on 
St.  Mark's,  he  is  writing  his  Gospel  on  a  roll  on  his  right 
knee,  while  a  closed  book,  evidently  the  Apocalypse,  lies  upon 
his  left. 


138  VENICE 

It  still  remains  for  us  to  describe  the  reliefs  in  which  entire 
compositions  are  depicted.  We  may  first  mention  some  frag- 
ments belonging  to  the  attica  of  an  early  Christian  sarcoph- 
agus, which  are  let  into  the  wall  above  one  of  the  doorways 
of  the  principal  facade.  Xhey  contain  eleven  different  sub- 
jects from  the  New  Testament,  such  as  the  Annunciation  of 
the  Angels  to  the  Shepherds,  the  Adoration  of  the  Wise  Men, 
the  Miracle  of  Cana,  and  Christ  between  the  Apostles  Paul 
and  Peter.  W^e  find  an  abundance  of  similar  reliefs  in  the 
museums  of  the  Papal  Palaces  at  Rome,  brought  from  the 
atria  of  the  oldest  basilicas,  and,  generally  speaking,  not  in- 
ferior in  artistic  value  to  the  fragments  on  St.  Mark's.  But, 
notwithstanding,  we  must  look  on  those  of  St.  Mark's  as 
unique,  because  they  are  Greek  work,  and  of  a  kind  of 
which  little  or  nothing  else  has  survived  destruction.  The 
care  bestowed  on  an  operation  so  difficult  and  laborious  as 
the  carving  of  a  great  number  of  small  figures,  disconnected 
from  the  background,  would  imply  that  the  sarcophagus  from 
which  the  fragments  were  taken  belonged  to  the  tomb  of  some 
great  personage — a  prince,  perhaps  even  an  emperor. 

All  that  is  known  at  the  present  day  of  Byzantine  art  after 
the  Seventh  Century  presents  it  to  us  in  an  unfavourable 
light,  and  the  late  Byzantine  sculptures  in  the  facade  of  St. 
Mark's  confirm  us  in  this  judgment.  We  shall  therefore 
here  refer  to  only  two  of  them,-  which  merit  attention  on 
account  of  the  peculiarity  of  their  subjects.  They  are  in  the 
south  wall.  In  the  centre  of  one  of  them  is  represented  a 
throne — the  heavenly  throne  of  Christ,  although  Christ  Him- 


SCULPTURES  ON  ST.  MARK'S  139 

self  is  not  represented  as  occupying  it;  but  on  the  throne 
are  set  three  symbols  typifying  His  person,  viz.,  a  cross  with 
six  arms,  a  medallion  containing  the  figure  of  a  lamb,  and  a 
crown.  On  each  side  of  the  throne,  and  looking  up  to  it, 
stand  six  lambs,  and  behind  them,  closing  in  the  composition, 
are  two  palm-trees  and  four  vases.  As  to  the  meaning  of 
these  symbols,  all  doubt  is  removed  by  the  Greek  inscription 
beneath  the  relief.  The  lambs  are  the  "  holy  apostles  " ;  the 
lamb  upon  the  throne  is  "  the  holy  Lamb."  Such  representa- 
tions are  by  no  means  uncommon  among  the  oldest  mosaics 
in  the  apses  of  the  churches  at  Ravenna  and  Rome,  which 
also  show  that  the  palm-trees  are  no  idle  accessory,  but 
signify  Paradise. 

Another  reproduction  of  a  wall-painting  or  mosaic  is  to  be 
found  in  the  second  relief  on  the  same  wall.  Here,  as  usual 
in  historical  representations  of  primitive  Christian  art,  two 
different  scenes  are  combined  in  the  same  composition.  On 
the  left  is  Abraham  leading  the  boy  Isaac  by  the  hand. 
Isaac  carries  on  his  back  the  wood  for  the  sacrifice ;  Abraham 
holds  in  his  left  hand  a  great  vessel,  in  the  shape  of  a  bowl, 
and  doubtless  representing  the  patriarchal  tinder-box  for  the 
Fathers  and  theologians  of  the  Church  speculated  much  as  to 
how  Abraham  kindled  the  sacrificial  fire  on  Moriah.  In  the 
second  scene,  Isaac  is  lying  bound  upon  the  earth  before  a 
burning  altar,  while  Abraham,  standing  behind  him,  lays  his 
left  hand  upon  Isaac's  head,  and  with  face  averted  lifts  the 
knife  in  his  right  hand,  ready  to  deliver  the  fatal  blow.  Be- 
hind him  stands  a  lofty  tree,  with  a  lamb  below  it,  and  amid 


1 40  VENICE 

the  branches  of  the  tree  appears  a  hand,  the  usual  symbol  of 
the  Voice  of  God,  on  which  Abraham  bends  his  gaze. 

On  the  north  side  of  St.  Mark's,  near  the  entrance  to  the 
courtyard  of  the  Doge's  Palace,  is  a  relief  executed  in  por- 
phyry. It  represents  four  Oriental  princes  embracing  one 
another  in  couples.  These  have  given  rise  to  the  most  vari- 
ous explanations,  and  are  pointed  out  as  objects  of  peculiar 
interest.  Guides  and  guidebooks  alike  direct  attention  to 
them,  and  few  visitors  to  the  City  of  the  Lagoons  can 
have  passed  them  by  without  notice.  Why  they  should  be 
thought  worthy  of  such  special  attention  (being,  as  they  are, 
of  very  inferiour  artistic  value),  it  would  be  difficult  to  ex- 
plain. Perhaps  it  is  because  they  are  close  to  a  door  through 
which  people  are  continually  passing,  and  are  thus  easily  seen. 
They  were  brought  from  Ptolemais. 

The  decorations  of  the  upper  portions  of  the  fagade  were 
completed  as  late  as  the  Fourteenth  Century,  since  the  orna- 
ments of  that  part  are  in  the  Gothic  style  and  Byzantine 
sculptures  are  wholly  wanting.  The  figurative  ornamenta- 
tion of  the  principal  entrance  is  the  work,  probably  not  of 
Byzantine,  but  of  native  artists,  and  belongs,  without  the 
least  doubt,  to  the  beginning  of  the  same  century. 

These  sculptures  deserve  our  thorough  attention  in  more 
than  one  respect — not  least  because  they  represent  the  earliest 
efforts  of  Venetian  sculpture.  Venetian  plastic  art  during 
the  Fourteenth  Century  is  almost  wholly  unknown  outside 
the  city;  but  any  one  who  is  intimately  acquainted  with  the 
monuments  in  the  churches  of  Venice  cannot  for  a  moment 


SCULPTURES  ON  ST.  MARK'S  141 

doubt  that  it  was  far  superior  to  the  painting  of  the  same 
date,  and  that  the  great  Venetian  painters  of  the  Fifteenth 
Century  had  more  to  learn  from  the  sculptors  than  from  the 
painters  of  their  native  state.  It  has  been  said  that  the  first 
great  master  of  Italian  sculpture,  Andrea  Pisano,  was  the 
author  of  the  oldest  non-Byzantine  sculptures  on  the 
fagade  of  St.  Mark's;  but  this  would  be  to  do  them  too 
much  honour.  In  admiring  them  it  has  hitherto  unhappily 
been  the  fashion  to  stop  short  at  a  general  survey,  and  we  ask 
in  vain  why  it  is  that  the  sculptures  of  the  principal  facade 
have  never  yet  been  described  and  explained.  No  other  rea- 
son suggests  itself  for  this  than  the  extraordinary  variety  of 
invention  and  the  great  wealth  of  composition  which  they 
display.  The  visitors  to  Venice  are — not  too  idle  or  too 
superficial  perhaps — but,  let  us  say,  too  busy,  to  spend  their 
time  in  the  examination  of  the  details  of  such  complicated 
compositions.  And  yet  these  compositions  are,  before  all 
things,  to  the  last  degree  remarkable  in  their  details;  still 
more  so  even  than  in  their  artistic  finish.  Design  and 
modelling  may  have  been  brought  to  an  equal  or  greater 
degree  of  finish;  but  the  subjects  here  handled  by  Venetian 
artists  are  simply  unique  of  their  kind. 

The  three  semicircular  archivolts  of  the  principal  doorway, 
one  within  the  other,  are  ornamented  on  the  inner,  as  well  as 
the  outer  surfaces,  with  compositions  containing  figures.  The 
large  external  arch  is  adorned  with  rich  foliage  and  roses, 
in  the  taste  of  the  best  ^gypto-Arabian  ornamentation,  and, 
as  usual  in  early  Christian  monuments,  proceeding  from  two 


I4a  VENICE 

vases.  The  spaces  are  filled  up  with  eight  holy  men  looking 
upwards  to  Christ,  a  beardless  youth,  at  the  summit  of  the 
arch.  At  the  crown  of  the  same  arch  is  a  medallion,  with 
the  Lamb  of  God,  held  by  two  angels ;  and  below  it  on  each 
side  are  twelve  very  remarkable  representations  of  the  handi- 
crafts of  Venice.  First  come  the  shipbuilders,  then  follow 
the  vintners,  occupied  in  drawing  liquor  from  the  vats. 
Then  the  bakehouse  and  the  shambles,  matched  on  the  op- 
posite side  by  a  dairy,  and  by  masons  and  shoemakers.  These 
are  followed  by  the  hairdressers,  and  here  we  can  see  the 
dandies  of  ancient  Venice  having  their  hair  pressed  with 
curling-irons.  Next  comes  coopers,  carpenters,  smiths,  and 
many  fishermen,  who  are  placed  opposite  the  shipbuilders. 
The  meaning  of  the  figures  on  the  outer  side  of  the  smaller 
internal  archivolt  is  more  enigmatical.  At  the  apex  is  seated 
a  woman  in  antique  costume,  with  her  feet  crosswise  upon  the 
ground.  In  each  hand  she  holds  a  medallion,  and  beside  her 
stand  or  sit  sixteen  women  with  loose-flowing  hair,  the 
majority  having  scrolls  in  their  hands,  which  once  probably 
bore  their  names.  These  are  undoubtedly  personifications  of 
virtues.  Here,  for  instance,  is  a  youthful  woman  with  flow- 
ing locks,  tearing  open  the  jaws  of  a  lion  with  her  hands,  and 
representing  Strength.  There  is  Justice,  holding  a  pair  of 
scales  in  her  right  hand.  A  third  is  Love,  with  a  crown 
upon  her  head.  The  inner  side  of  the  arch  is  filled  by 
twelve  representations  of  the  months,  in  the  style  then  in 
vogue  for  ornamenting  illuminated  manuscripts  and  calen- 
dars, and  showing  how  people  for  the  most  part  employed 
themselves  in  Venice  during  the  different  seasons. 


SCULPTURES  ON  ST.  MARK'S  143 

To  the  figures  on  the  inmost  archivolt,  no  religious  or  theo- 
logical signification  can  be  attached ;  but  it  is  perhaps  precisely 
on  this  account  that  they  are  so  very  interesting.  A  cock  is 
sitting  upon  a  vine,  pecking  a  bunch  of  grapes,  while  a  fox 
looks  up  longingly  from  below ;  a  wolf  is  seen  pursuing  a  lamb 
and  an  eagle  clutches  a  hare.  Round  these  scenes  runs  a 
band  of  foliage,  issuing  from  a  woman  reclining  on  the 
ground,  and  offering  her  breast  to  a  serpent  and  a  man. 
"Mater  terra"  is  the  explanation  of  this  enigmatical  figure 
which  we  find  in  several  Italian  manuscripts  of  the  Tenth, 
Eleventh,  and  Twelfth  Centuries;  and  we  may  therefore 
conclude  that  this  representation — possibly  borrowed  from 
the  Northern,  in  no  case  from  the  ancient  classic  mythology — 
had  already  found  its  way  elsewhere  into  Italy.  How  proud 
the  citizens  of  Venice  formerly  were  of  the  adornment  of  the 
facade  of  their  church  is  clearly  proved  by  the  fact  that  they 
placed  a  view  of  it  in  mosaic  above  one  of  the  side-doors  of 
the  principal  entrance.  This  is  the  sole  Byzantine  mosaic 
still  remaining  there,  although  at  one  time  the  whole  of  the 
lunettes  were  ornamented  by  them. 

The  high  opinion  of  the  Byzantine  reliefs  of  the  fagade 
entertained  even  by  the  foremost  masters  of  the  Renaissance 
is  proved  by  Gentile  Bellini's  great  picture  still  preserved  in 
Venice,  which  represents  the  procession,  with  the  relics  of  the 
cross,  in  the  square  of  St.  Mark's,  and  in  which  the  whole 
width  of  the  background  is  occupied  by  the  facade  of  the 
church,  reproduced  in  every  detail  with  marvellous  precision. 


THE  MOSAICS  OF  VENICE 

WILLIAM  B.  SCOTT 

PIETY  and  ecclesiastical  observances  were  very  favour- 
ite amusements  with  the  Venetians,  so  much  so,  that 
some  native  historians  have  assigned  that  as  the  final 
cause  of  the  long  prosperity  of  the  city.  The  great  event  in 
connection  with  this  passion,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  in 
the  history  of  relics,  was  the  translation  of  the  body  of  St. 
Mark  from  Alexandria  to  Venice,  where  it  was  in  the  course 
of  three  centuries  enshrined  in  a  church  of  the  highest  value 
in  the  history  of  Mediaeval  architecture,  and  especially  in 
the  art  of  mosaic,  examples  of  which  it  has  preserved  of 
various  kinds  and  dates,  while  they  have  disappeared  by  time 
and  accidents  in  Rome  and  elsewhere.  Besides,  St.  Mark 
and  his  lion  appear  in  a  hundred  different  pictures  of  the 
school,  they  were  bound  up  with  the  very  life  of  the  city, 
and  became  identified  with  it  more  completely  than  any 
other  patron-saint  ever  was  with  the  locality  under  his 
charge.  So  self-sufficient  did  the  piety  of  the  Venetians  be- 
come, and  so  confident  were  they  in  the  efficiency  of  their 
patron,  that  the  Roman  ecclesiastics  said,  with  irony,  that 
Venice  had  a  pope  of  its  own,  il  papa  Marco. 

By  the   middle  of   the   Ninth   Century   the   sailors   and 

merchant  adventurers  of  the  Lagoon  had  excelled  all  others 

on  that  side  of  Italy,  and  absorbed  nearly  all  the  trade  of 

the  East.     At  that  time,  Alexandria  being  under  Mahome- 

144 


MOSAICS  OF  VENICE  145 

dan  rule,  a  little  fleet  of  Venetian  ships  was  lying  in  the  har- 
bour there,  when  the  church  wherein  lay  the  remains  of  the 
Evangelist  was  pounced  upon  by  the  ruling  powers,  and  the 
coloured  marbles  with  which  it  was  lined  carefully  removed 
for  the  purpose  of  decorating  a  rising  palace.  The  Ma- 
homedans  were  by  no  means  unmindful  of  relics,  but  the 
priests  belonging  to  the  church  were  frightfully  agitated  lest 
the  holy  body  should  suffer  profanation.  The  Venetian 
merchants,  whose  plans  were  laid,  came  to  their  aid,  offered 
their  ships  as  a  temporary  asylum  for  the  precious  burden, 
and,  having  once  got  it  on  board  in  a  basket,  put  to  sea. 
Theft  was  indeed  the  only  way  in  times  of  peace  such  invalu- 
able objects  could  be  acquired,  Mahomedans  as  well  as  Chris- 
tians held  them  so  tenaciously;  but  this  did  not  seem  to  dis- 
please the  saint,  who  forthwith  began  a  career  of  miracle- 
working,  warning  the  captain  of  the  particular  ship  to  whose 
yardarm  the  sacred  basket  had  been  attached,  in  fear  of  the 
examination  for  contraband  goods,  to  furl  his  sails,  and  so 
forth.  When  safely  landed  at  the  spot  now  occupied  by  the 
church  of  San  Francisco  della  Vigna  (which  still  possesses 
one  of  the  earliest  pictures  of  the  school,  the  colossal  Virgin 
of  Negroponte),  an  angel  was  said  to  address  him  with  the 
words  Pax  tibi,  Marce,  Evangelista  meus,  words  afterwards 
placed  on  the  open  book  under  the  paw  of  the  lion,  and  the 
mad  joy  of  the  people  overflowed  in  feasting,  music,  proces- 
sions, and  prayers.  The  former  patron,  St.  Theodore,  was 
laid  aside  for  the  Evangelist,  and,  by  the  help  of  the  Greeks, 
the  most  wonderfully  rich  mass  of  building,  golden  mosaic 


146  VENICE 

within  and  crusted  marble  of  many  colours  without,  began 
to  rise. 

And  yet  it  has  been  questioned  whether  any  bones  or  body 
of  a  saint  was  ever  brought  there.  Two  centuries  after,  in 
1094,  the  Emperor  Henry  III.  made  an  express  pilgrimage 
to  the  shrine,  when  its  contents  could  not  be  found,  had  dis- 
appeared, temporarily  withdrawn  themselves,  as  it  was  said. 
This  untoward  affair  cast  the  city  into  mourning,  until  one 
morning  the  Sacristan  perceived,  on  entering  the  church,  a 
fragrant  odour,  and  a  brilliant  light  issuing  from  a  particu- 
lar column.  At  first  he  feared  a  fire  was  breaking  out,  but 
on  approaching  he  saw  a  human  arm  protruding  from  the 
stone.  Very  soon  Doge  and  bishop,  with  priests  in  hun- 
dreds, were  kneeling  before  the  rent  and  illuminated  column, 
when  the  protruding  hand  dropped  a  ring  from  one  of  its 
fingers  into  the  bishop's  bosom.  The  solid  mass  opened, 
and  an  iron  cofKn  was  visible,  in  which  were  the  remains  of 
St.  Mark.  This  was  on  the  24th  of  July,  ever  after  kept  as 
a  feast;  but,  strange  to  say,  since  that  time  the  burial-place 
of  the  body  has  remained  unknown.  The  secret  was  said  to 
be  confided  to  a  few,  but,  indeed,  the  next  Doge  (or  rather 
Carossio,  the  usurper  of  the  Doge's  throne)  has  been  accused 
of  stealing  the  relics.  The  ring,  itself  a  sufficient  curiosity, 
was  stolen,  and  disappeared  in  1585. 

In  connection  with  this  church,  the  art  of  mosaic,  which 
had  been  practised  long  before  by  Greeks  at  Ravenna,  entered 
Venice.  With  the  mosaists  came  other  artists,  and  on  the 
island  of  Murano,  besides  the  glass-workers,  various  Byzan- 


MOSAICS  OF  VENICE          147 

tine  craftsmen  began  working.  It  is  to  this  island  and  to 
these  painters,  of  whom,  however,  individually  we  know 
nothing,  we  must  look  for  the  beginning  of  all  the  arts  in 
Venice. 

The  two  outlying  islands,  too  far  away  from  the  seventy 
or  eighty  on  which  the  city  stands  to  be  considered  a  part  of 
it,  Torcello  and  Murano,  are  long  strips  of  still  thickly  in- 
habited houses,  with  symptoms  of  antiquity  as  great  as  any 
part  of  the  capital.  To  the  last  named  island  the  manufac- 
ture of  glass  was  confined  by  the  government,  and  held  in 
the  profoundest  secrecy;  but  there  can  be  no  doubt  this 
secrecy  was  initiated  by  the  workmen  themselves,  who  were 
foreigners,  and  that  the  workshops  of  Constantinople  con- 
tinued to  a  rather  late  time  to  export  objects  of  art  of  all 
sorts,  glass  and  pictures  in  particular,  not  only  to  Venice, 
but  to  all  the  coast  towns  of  Italy.  During  the  Sixth,  Sev- 
enth, and  Eighth  Centuries  the  whole  interior  of  Italy  was 
overrun  by  northern  conquerors,  and  production  had  entirely 
ceased.  This  being  the  case,  the  cities  along  the  coast, 
Venice,  Ravenna,  Ancona,  and  round  by  Naples  to  Genoa, 
the  rival  at  a  later  time  of  Venice,  were  better  off  than 
interior  towns.  Late  Roman  art  during  this  period  dies  out. 

Venice  itself,  dating  from  this  period,  had  no  traditions 
whatever.  No  antique  spirit  inspired  sculpture  as  at  Pisa 
and  Rome,  nor  even  at  a  later  time  did  it  practically  adopt 
the  Renaissance,  especially  in  architecture,  like  the  rest  of 
Italy.  There  seems  to  have  been,  in  the  early  Venetian  tem- 
per, a  dislike  to  adopt  benefits  of  an  intellectual  sort  from 


148  VENICE 

the  terra  firma  which  the  island  power  had  subjugated,  from 
Padua  and  Verona  particularly;  and  the  advantage  of  trade 
with  the  capital  of  the  Eastern  Empire  continued  the  Byzan- 
tine influence  in  other  matters.  At  the  same  time  we  must 
recognise  in  the  architecture  of  the  advancing  city  a  quite 
independent  character:  sculpture  there  was  none  under  Greek 
religious  influence.  It  must  be  remembered  also  that  East- 
ern Art  not  only  continued  its  traditional  forms  and  condi- 
tions, it  retrograded ;  and  its  pictures  gradually  became  more 
hieratic,  parting  from  living  nature  altogether  at  the  very 
time  free  artistic  impulses  were  beginning  in  the  West. 

We  must  not,  therefore,  expect  to  find  any  authentic  pic- 
tures dating  very  early  in  Venice.  There  were  painters  on 
the  Continent  a  century  earlier.  Giotto's  noble  work  in  the 
Arena  was  accomplished  at  the  very  commencement  of  the 
Fourteenth  Century,  1306,  and  yet  near  as  it  was,  and  in 
the  territory  of  the  Republic,  it  appears  to  have  had  no  influ- 
ence on  the  painters  of  Murano;  the  most  prosperous  state 
in  Italy,  Venice,  at  that  day  continued  without  painters,  and 
imported  its  art  with  its  manufactures. 

The  existing  specimens  of  native  mosaics,  according  to 
Kugler,  are  the  mosaics  in  the  church  of  St.  Cyprian,  in  the 
town  of  Murano,  completed  in  882,  representing  the  Virgin 
between  saints  and  archangels.  With  incomparably  more 
force,  however,  he  says,  the  Byzantine  type  is  represented  in 
the  Church  of  St.  Mark,  that  curious  fabric  being  begun  in 
976,  at  the  latest,  the  earliest  wall  and  cupola  pictures  therein 
go  back  to  the  Eleventh,  and  perhaps  to  the  Tenth,  Century. 


MOSAICS  OF  VENICE  149 

The  floor,  the  walls,  and  the  pillars,  half-way  up,  were  cov- 
ered with  the  most  costly  marbles,  while  the  rest  of  the 
interior — upper  walls,  waggon-roofs,  and  cupolas,  compris- 
ing a  surface  of  more  than  forty  thousand  square  feet — was 
covered  with  mosaics  on  a  gold  ground;  a  gigantic  work 
which  even  all  the  wealth  of  Venice  spent  six  centuries  in 
patching  together.  Thus  it  is  that  we  find  all  the  successive 
stages  of  development  in  these  mosaics,  dowrn  to  "  the  lowest 
mannerism  of  the  school  of  Tintoretto,"  perpetuated  in  the 
edifice.  Many  of  the  earlier  are  so  noble  in  design,  and  so 
curious  in  an  archaeological  and  mythological  point  of  view, 
that  it  is  surprising  they  have  not  been  more  studied  and 
reproduced.  The  single  figures  are  for  the  most  part  con- 
ventional and  similar  to  others  of  the  same  personages  else- 
where ;  but  the  long  series  of  subjects  from  the  Bible,  begin- 
ning with  the  first  verse  of  Genesis,  are  full  of  thought  and 
mystical  beauty.  In  all  those  showing  the  progressive  stages 
of  creation,  God  is  represented  in  light  yellow  and  bright 
garments,  partly  white,  not  as  in  later  Art  in  deep  red  and 
blue  approaching  to  black.  He  stands  calmly,  as  he  does 
not  fly  with  rolling  draperies  and  great  feet  extended,  as  in 
Michelangelo,  or  in  Raphael's  imitation  of  the  same,  and  is 
attended  by,  or  rather  his  acts  are  witnessed  by,  angels  in 
light  blue,  one,  two,  or  three;  a  single  angel  in  the  creation 
of  Light  (which  is  represented  by  bars  of  gold  rushing  out 
of  two  globes,  one  red,  the  other  black),  having  one  wing 
yellow,  the  other  blue;  three  angels  in  the  creation  of  the 
vegetable  world.  In  others  that  follow,  as  in  that  wherein 


150  VENICE 

their  Maker  is  telling  our  first  parents  to  be  fruitful  and 
multiply  and  replenish  the  earth,  we  see  the  most  unhesitat- 
ing candour  of  representation,  showing  the  long  journey  and 
the  many  changes  our  ideas  of  the  Deity  have  passed  through 
since  these  mosaics  were  considered  their  fitting  expression. 

The  effect  on  the  eye  made  by  the  interior  of  St.  Mark's, 
which  is  only  lit  from  above,  is  certainly  gloomy  and  oppress- 
ive, but  gorgeous  and  overpowering.  We  must  remember 
that  there  was  no  need  for  light  except  at  the  altar,  which 
was  blazing  with  lamps,  when  the  people  assembled,  and 
that  glass  windows  were  at  their  rarest  at  the  time  the  church 
was  planned;  but  it  strikes  upon  the  heart  of  the  visitor  as 
the  piled-up  offerings  of  men  who  were  willing  to  buy  the 
favour  of  Heaven  with  the  richest  gifts.  From  the  tesselated 
pavement,  undulating  like  the  waves  of  the  sea  (whether  or 
not  intentionally  is  a  question  lately  raised,  and  still  unset- 
tled, although  it  is  said  the  groining  of  the  crypt  is  perfect), 
up  to  the  gilt  ironwork  on  the  tops  of  the  cupolas,  it  is  com- 
plete. Outside  the  mosaics  are  for  the  most  part  late.  The 
only  old  one  of  the  five,  over  the  five  portals,  shows  the  dif- 
ference between  the  decorative  sense  of  the  end  of  the  Four- 
teenth Century  and  the  beginning  of  the  Eighteenth,  when 
the  others  were  mostly  done.  The  spaces  covered  are  con- 
cave hemispheres,  and  in  the  earlier  mosaic  the  forms  are 
made  to  bend  with  the  curvature  towards  the  centre,  like 
reflections  in  a  glass  ball;  the  later  resists  the  curvature  of 
its  own  surface,  contradicting  the  architectural  basis,  an4 
looking  like  a  picture  applied. 


THE  PIAZZA 

HENRY  PERL 

WE  find  ourselves  on  the  Piazza  itself, which  we 
are  to  study  under  the  different  aspects  of  differ- 
ent hours  of  the  day — on  the  Piazza.,  with  the 
encircling  arcades,  locally  called  the  Procuratie,1  in  which 
shelter  from  the  sun  or  the  rain  can  always  be  obtained.  The 
Piazza,  was  cut  across  by  a  canal  until  the  beginning  of  the 
Twelfth  Century,  from  the  banks  of  which  rose  the  first 
Church  of  San  Geminiano,  and  on  the  site  of  the  Loggie  of 
the  Ducal  Palazzo  flourished  a  vegetable  garden  belonging  to 
the  nuns  of  San  Zaccaria.  At  that  remote  period,  the  Senate, 
which  then  only  meant  the  elders,  when  Puritanical  simpli- 
city reigned  amongst  the  island  community,  liked  to  retire 
there  to  meditate  quietly  on  the  State  necessities  of  the  rapidly 
growing  state.  In  the  Twelfth  Century  the  canal  was 
filled  in  and  the  church  mentioned  above  pulled  down,  only 
for  another  to  rise  up,  to  which  the  same  name  was  given,  but 
which  was  destroyed  by  order  of  Napoleon  in  1810.  In 
1260  the  first  block  was  laid  of  the  Piazza  di  San  Marco, 
after  the  designs  of  Andrea  Tirali,  and  from  the  same  time 
may  be  said  to  date  its  rise  to  the  glorious  position  it  was  to 
occupy  as  the  nucleus  of  the  life  of  Venice. 

1  The  nine  Procurators,  second  in  power  to  the  Doge  alone,  lived 
in  the  palaces  of  the  Piazza:  hence  this  name. 


1 52  VENICE 

The  central  portion  of  the  Piazza  is  192  yards  long  by  90 
broad  on  the  eastern  or  San  Marco,  and  61  on  the  western  or 
Palazzo  Reale  end. 

What  the  Piazza  di  San  Marco  is  to  the  Venetians  can 
only  be  understood  by  those  who  are  intimately  acquainted 
with  the  inner  life  of  the  town.  According  to  the  time  at 
which  it  is  visited,  it  is  the  forum  for  the  transaction  of  civil 
and  political  business,  the  market  for  buying  and  selling  all 
manner  of  goods,  the  exchange,  the  place  for  the  drawing  of 
lotteries,  the  gondola  station,  the  scene  of  church  or  secular 
fetes,  the  promenade  of  all  classes,  the  summer  rendez-vous  of 
the  upper  ten,  the  open-air  tribunal,  at  the  time  of  the  carni- 
val the  ballroom  the  spot  where  artists  of  all  kinds  meet  to 
discuss  their  affairs,  the  stage  for  religious  ceremonies,  the 
place  to  secure  seats  at  the  theatre,  or  to  have  your  boots 
blacked — "La  pattina,  la  pattina  lucido!"  rings  the  cry,  re- 
minding us  that  well-polished  shoes  often  make  up  for  worn- 
out  costumes — the  place  where  the  latest  news  is  to  be  had 
by  every  one  from  all  parts  of  the  world;  in  a  word,  the 
meeting-point  of  all  Venice — especially  of  those  who  have 
any  interest  in  common — from  porters  and  factory-girls  to 
the  elite  of  society. 

Every  article  of  dress  can  be  bought  alike  by  ladies  and 
gentlemen  in  the  Piazza,  and  things  are  very  chic  there,  too. 
Jewels  and  art  fabrics,  antique  and  modern,  of  every  variety, 
are  there  displayed  to  suit  every  taste  and  purse;  and  at  any 
hour  of  the  day  or  night,  without  leaving  the  square,  you 
can  get  a  hot  or  a  cold  meal,  anything  you  fancy  to  drink  and 


THE  PIAZZA  153 

sweetmeats  to  toy  with;  or  you  can  have  your  hair  cut  or 
dressed ;  and  last,  not  least,  you  can  thoroughly  steep  your- 
self in  an  atmosphere  of  art,  for  from  whatever  point  of  view 
you  look  at  this  nucleus  of  all  that  is  best  in  the  whole  world, 
your  eyes  will  rest  upon  some  scene  of  satisfying  beauty. 

This  noble  marble-paved  square,  where  dust  and  the  noise 
of  carriages,  with  the  barking  of  dogs,  are  alike  unknown, 
where  the  rain  sinks  away  as  soon  as  it  has  fallen,  leaving  the 
stones  as  clean  and  fresh  as  ever,  is  not  alone  the  focus  of  the 
grandeur  of  Venezia,  it  is  her  very  heart ;  it  is  herself,  for  in 
it  is  contained  all  that  her  citizens  can  need. 

Differences  of  rank  cease  to  exist  face  to  face  with  this 
stone  Ninon  de  L'Enclos,  as  a  witty  Frenchman  dubbed  the 
Piazza,  and  the  unique  square  loses  not  one  iota  of  its  grand- 
eur thereby,  as  we  can  well  understand  when  we  remember 
that  the  banner  of  the  Republic  was  set  up  in  Venice  in  the 
Fourteenth  Century. 

We  saunter  slowly  up  and  down  the  Piazza,  now  sitting 
down  outside  some  cafe,  first  one  side  and  then  another, 
meeting  at  every  turn  fresh  details  of  the  highest  artistic 
value. 

But  let  us  pause  a  moment  to  look  up  at  the  Clock  Tower, 
with  its  big  dial-plate  visible  from  a  long  distance  off.  This 
tower  is  one  of  the  curiosities  of  Venice,  and  was  erected  by 
Pietro  Lombardo,  one  of  the  Lombardi  family,  with  whose 
name  so  much  of  the  best  architecture  in  Venice  is  associated. 
La  Torre  dell'  Orologio  dates  from  1496,  and  is  remarkable 
for  two  black  giants  on  a  platform,  which  strike  the 


154  VENICE 

hours  with  their  hammers,  and  are  called  by  the  Venetians 
"  i  Man."  From  the  Feast  of  the  Epiphany  to  the  beginning 
of  Lent,  and  during  the  week  between  Ascension  Day  and 
Whit  Sunday,  the  figures  of  the  three  kings  who  came  to 
worship  the  Infant  Christ  may  be  seen  to  issue  every  hour 
from  one  of  the  two  doors  leading  to  the  gallery  of  the 
tower  where  the  Madonna  sits  enthroned,  and  passing  in 
front  of  her  they  remove  their  crowns,  bow  low  before  her, 
and  walk  off  to  the  second  door  on  the  other  side,  through 
which  they  disappear.  This  pretty  little  puppet-show  caused 
an  immense  amount  of  excitement  at  the  time  of  its  erection, 
and  even  now,  especially  at  Whitsuntide,  crowds  of  country- 
folk collect  to  stare  up  at  it. 

The  general  effect — we  mean  of  the  tower  itself — is  highly 
decorative,  and  is  quite  inseparable  from  our  thoughts  of 
Venice,  for  it  rises  up  in  our  memories  in  connection  with  so 
many  characteristic  scenes.  Truly  a  typical  bit  of  local 
colouring  is  this  trusty  old  Torre  dell'  Orologio,  which 
greets  us  directly  we  set  foot  in  Venice  from  the  water-side 
and  come  in  sight  of  the  Piazzetta. 

The  device  of  the  noble  Venetian  lion  with  outstretched 
paws  upon  the  cover  of  the  Gospels,  with  the  background  of 
star-flecked  azure  blue  sky,  gave  rise  to  a  clever  bon  mot.  In 
1797,  when  novelty  was  the  rage,  the  motto  of  the  lion  of  San 
Marco,  "  Pax  tibi  Marce  Evangelista  meus"  was  converted 
into  the  formula  "  Droits  de  I'homme  et  du  citoyen  " ;  and  a 
gondolier — the  gondoliers  of  Venice  are  noted  for  their  wit 
and  ready  repartee — cried,  "//  leone  gha  volta  pagina"  (the 


THE  PIAZZA  155 

lion  has  turned  over  a  new  leaf).  It  was  not  long,  however, 
before  the  lion  of  the  Clock  Tower,  with  all  his  winged 
comrades  returned  to  the  old  "  Pax  tibi  Marce  Evangelista 
meus" 

We  meant  only  just  to  look  at  the  time,  but  the  stones  of 
Venice  have  all  such  a  lot  to  say  for  themselves  that  it  is 
very  difficult  to  tear  ourselves  away  from  them.  It  is  eleven 
o'clock  now,  and  at  twelve  o'clock  we  expect  an  acquaintance 
to  have  di  collazione  with  us. 

But  we  will  just  turn  into  the  Procuratie  Vecchie  first,  to 
which  a  path  leads  direct  from  the  Clock  Tower.  It  is 
always  pleasant  to  stroll  about  in  these  arcades,  for  they  are 
well  protected  from  the  heat  and  dust.  We  pass  jeweller's 
shop  after  jeweller's  shop  beneath  this  porticus  with  its  fifty 
arches  and  the  electric  light  almost  deceives  us  into  fancying 
we  are  looking  at  the  gems  by  starlight.  It  is  the  same  with 
the  unrivalled  verroterie,  or  glass-ware,  which,  with  the 
crimson  plush  setting,  presents  quite  a  fairy-like  appearance. 
The  only  thing,  however,  which  we  really  cannot  pass  with- 
out stopping  to  examine  it,  is  a  very  lovely  Venetian  necklace 
of  thirty  strings  or  fili  as  they  are  technically  called,  such  as 
Venice  is  famed  for  all  the  world  over.  This  wonderful 
collar  is  made  of  niello,  or  enamel  beads,  of  about  the  size 
of  a  thaler,  and  the  clasp  consists  of  a  many-coloured  repre- 
sentation of  the  old  arms  of  Venice  or  of  the  winged  lion. 
The  necklace  is  worn  so  that  the  clasp  comes  in  front  on  the 
centre  of  the  throat.  A  celebrated  ornament  of  this  kind, 
coveted  by  all  foreign  ladies,  is  that  made  by  Angelo  Mis- 


156  VENICE 

siaglia,  and  as  it  consists  of  ducats  of  the  finest  gold,  not  one 
of  which  had  ever  been  used,  it  must  have  cost  a  very  large 
sum. 

It  is  really  marvellous  how  many  jewellers  work  and 
thrive  in  Venice.  All  Italians — especially  the  Venetians, 
who  have  more  affinity  with  Orientals  than  their  sisters  of 
the  rest  of  the  peninsula — delight  as  much  in  decking  them- 
selves out  with  jewels  as  the  women  of  the  Orient,  and  in 
spite  of  their  love  of  economy  in  other  respects,  squander 
large  sums  upon  their  ornaments. 

Seated  in  front  of  the  cafes,  Trattorie,  German  Eirrerle, 
and  drinking-saloons  called  "  American  bars "  and  resem- 
bling those  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic,  may  be  seen  at 
this  hour  of  the  day  many  a  daintily-dressed  and  befrizzled 
fop,  with  the  inevitable  flower,  bought  from  the  equally  in- 
evitable flower-girl,  in  his  button-hole,  gazing  into  the  blue, 
or,  to  be  strictly  accurate,  up  at  the  greyish-blue  curtains 
which  hang  down  from  the  roofing  of  the  arcades,  and  flutter 
in  the  soft  sea-breeze  which  always  comes  in  to  freshen  the 
atmosphere  about  noon. 

As  we  stroll  along  in  the  cool  stone  grove,  we  pass  yet 
more  shops  full  of  costly  products  of  Venetian  industry :  glass 
mosaics,  filigree-work,  point  lace,  and  antique  silken  textures, 
quaint  life-sized  figures  carved  in  wood,  furniture  ornamented 
with  iron  filigree-work  or  carved  and  inlaid,  all  of  truly 
artistic  design  and  workmanship ;  all  manner  of  reproductions 
of  masterpieces  of  pictorial  art;  antique  and  modern  Vene- 
tian mirrors,  memorial  mosaics  and  other  examples  of  mon- 


THE  PIAZZA  157 

umental  art,  all  Venetian  specialties,  peculiarly  fascinating  to 
the  foreigner.  The  thought  is  first  borne  in  upon  us  that  in 
the  inner  labyrinths  of  this  town,  where  at  first  sight  life 
seems  to  be  one  long  dream  of  pleasure,  there  must  be  many 
important  industries  and  many  skilled  artisans. 

And  now  for  a  rapid  glance  at  the  Procuratie  Nuove,  that 
colonnade  which  is  always  cool  even  on  the  hottest  June  day. 
Here  things  appear  very  much  the  same  in  the  early  part  of 
the  day  as  they  do  over  in  the  Procuratie  Vecchie.  Tripping 
about  amongst  the  aristocrats,  officials,  and  the  privileged 
idlers  so  cleverly  dubbed  Disperati,  are  the  flower-girls  in 
their  fresh  youth  and  the  middle-aged  seller  of  wild  flowers 
from  the  country,  who  reminds  us,  with  his  two  baskets  full 
of  floral  treasures,  of  some  kitchen  garden  in  late  autumn. 
A  group  of  painters  always  appear  at  Florian's  about  this 
time  to  take  their  collazione  or  dejeuner  a  la  fourchette 
together. 

In  this  classical  colonnade,  with  its  thirty-six  arches,  there 
reigns  a  kind  of  hush,  for  here  business  never  makes  itself 
obtrusive,  for  though  there  are  a  good  many  old  curiosity 
shops  and  other  art  warehouses,  their  owners  have  no  need 
to  advertise  their  wares — those  who  want  them  know  well 
where  to  find  them.  The  fact  that  we  can  go  up  from  here 
to  the  regal  apartments  on  the  first  floor,  which  every 
foreigner  ought  to  visit,  is  yet  another  attraction  of  these 
Procuratie;  and  there,  too,  we  can  enjoy  absolute  quiet. 
And  the  "  volte "  once  gone  through,  as  they  say  in  the 
breaking  in  of  horses,  we  shall  come  in  due  course  to  the 


158  VENICE 

permanent  art  exhibitions,  housed  in  rooms  on  the  same  floor 
in  the  last  wing  of  the  colonnade,  which  every  one  ought  to 
see,  for  they  form  a  kind  of  monthly  record  of  the  art  in- 
dustries of  Venice. 

Nearer  the  Piazzetta  all  is  changed,  and  trade  takes  the 
place  of  art.  Agents  of  ship-brokers,  consignors  of  merchan- 
dise, offices  of  steamship  companies,  storehouses,  etc.,  occupy 
this  wing,  and  the  frequenters  of  the  neighbouring  cafes  are 
all  busy  people.  The  bank  buildings,  once  the  old  Zecca  or 
mint,  the  newly-built  will-situated  Cafe  alia  Borsa,  looking 
out  towards  the  Molo,  occupying  three  arcades  of  the  Zecca, 
form  the  finest  point  of  view  of  the  Procuratie  Nuove,  of 
which  Sansovino  drew  the  plans,  carried  out  in  1582,  un- 
fortunately with  certain  alterations,  by  Vincenzo  Scamozzi. 

Time  flies  fast  when  you  are  talking  about  the  past.  Why, 
it  is  twelve  o'clock  already ;  we  hear  the  twelve  long-drawn- 
out  strokes  from  the  Clock  Tower  of  San  Marco,  and  at  the 
same  moment  rings  out  a  cannon-shot  from  San  Giorgio, 
the  signal  for  all  Venice  that  lunch-time  has  arrived.  In  a 
moment  the  scene  is  changed.  The  Piazza  is  at  once  full  of 
people  eager  for  their  mid-day  meal;  and  at  the  same  time 
appear  hundreds  of  winged  beggars  whom  nobody  dreams  of 
driving  away,  for  their  privileges  have  been  secured  to  them 
for  many  long  years.  The  pigeons  of  San  Marco,  which 
nest  in  great  numbers  amongst  the  arches  and  decorations  of 
the  various  buildings,  come  down  in  flocks,  circling  about  the 
church  and  Piazza  as  if,  pensioners  of  the  Republic  as  they 
are,  they  knew  full  well  that  they  have  a  right  to  the  food 


THE  PIAZZA  159 

so  amply  provided  for  them  by  their  many  patrons  and 
friends.  A  very  beautiful  picture  is  this  daily  gathering  on 
the  Piazza,  of  the  pigeons  at  noon  and  at  two  o'clock,  a  poetic 
picture  which  never  loses  its  charm.  Foreigners,  especially, 
are  very  fond  of  feeding  them,  and  ladies  and  children  are 
lavish  with  corn  which  their  favourites  eat  out  of  their  hands. 
So  tame  and  confiding  have  the  gentle  creatures  become, 
through  a  long  course  of  indulgence  and  petting,  that  they 
often  settle  on  the  hands,  arms  or  shoulders  of  their  friends. 

The  cannon-shot  was  not  only  the  signal  for  the  birds  to 
fly  down  from  their  sheltered  niches  behind  the  cornice, 
but  also  for  all  the  clerks  in  the  various  offices  to  lay  down 
their  pens  as  if  at  the  word  of  command  from  their  chiefs, 
and  hurry  through  the  Procuratie  to  take  their  second  break- 
fast, and  enjoy  their  one  short  hour  of  rest  during  the  day  in 
one  or  another  restaurant  hard  by.  As  a  result,  the  Piazza. 
is  for  some  ten  minutes  full  of  life  and  animation,  and  even 
the  late  risers,  who  do  not  think  it  good  form  to  appear 
before  the  mid-day  cannon  signal  has  been  heard,  may  be  seen 
gathering  together  now. 

All  about  the  flagstaffs  with  their  winged  lions  are  charm- 
ing groups  pausing  to  exchange  greetings  or  to  make  up  little 
luncheon  parties.  Though  from  these  flagstaffs  no  longer 
float  the  silken  banners  of  the  Morea,  Cyprus  and  Candia, 
symbolising  the  vast  possessions  of  the  Republic,  the  far- 
stretching  influence  of  Venice  is  still  illustrated  by  the  many 
different  nationalities  represented  here.  It  is  at  such  a  time 
as  this  that  the  Piazza  appears  at  its  best— at  least,  at  its 


160  VENICE 

best  during  the  hours  of  broad  daylight,  for  of  course  at  mid- 
day there  is  none  of  the  glamour  or  mystery  which  have  so 
much  to  do  with  the  fascination  exercised  on  all  comers  by  the 
unrivalled  Venezia.  As  in  all  works  of  art,  every  picture 
in  Venice  gains  by  something  being  left  to  the  imagination  of 
the  spectator.  It  was  this  secret  which  Turner — most  suc- 
cessful of  all  the  exponents  of  Venetian  efforts  of  colour  and 
chiaroscuro — so  completely  fathomed  in  his  many  exquisite 
water-colour  views  of  the  fair  city  of  his  admiration;  and  we 
may  perhaps  add  that  it  was  this  same  secret  which  Canaletto, 
in  his  more  prosaic  renderings  of  the  same  scenes,  to  a  certain 
extent  missed. 

But  we  are  again  wandering  off  into  side  issues  and  must 
return  to  the  Piazza  itself.  From  November  to  April,  the 
fashionable  world  congregates  to  bask  in  the  sunshine  on  the 
Piazza  from  two  to  four,  or  according  to  the  new  Italian 
form  from  the  hour  of  fourteen  to  that  of  sixteen,  and  four 
times  a  week  to  listen  to  the  civic  or  military  band. 

On  a  bright  clear  autumn,  or  even  winter  day,  the  beauti- 
ful buildings  on  the  Piazza,  especially  the  facade  of  San 
Marco  with  its  marvellous  wealth  of  architectural  ornaments, 
are  seen  to  the  very  greatest  advantage.  The  atmosphere  is 
so  transparent,  that  every  detail,  however  minute,  can  be  dis- 
tinctly recognised,  and  there  is  about  the  whole  a  repose  which 
in  other  lights  is  rather  wanting  to  this  very  complex  struc- 
ture. It  is,  in  fact,  a  marked  peculiarity  of  the  whole  of 
Venice,  especially  of  the  fine  architectural  groups  on  the 
Piazza  di  San  Marco,  that  they  appear  totally  different  under 


THE  PIAZZA  161 

different  conditions,  whether  of  atmosphere  or  of  light,  and 
affect  the  spectator  in  a  number  of  different  ways. 

We  tear  ourselves  away  from  our  contemplation  of  the 
inanimate  stone  beauties  on  every  side,  to  give  due  attention 
to  the  many  lovely  and  fascinating  women  in  costly  costumes 
who  take  eye  and  heart  by  storm.  With  faces  half  hidden  by 
big  white  or  rose-coloured  silk  sunshades,  giving  to  them  a 
touch  of  mystery,  they  are  seated  in  the  same  Piazza,  where 
Shakespeare's  Othello  first  saw  his  Desdemona,  and  where 
Bianca  Cappello — this  we  know  for  very  certain — gave  Bon- 
aventurini  the  sign  which  preceded  her  flight  from  her 
father's  house.  Each  one  of  these  Venetian  women  is  in  her- 
self a  poem. 

Women  little  know  how  wonderfully  the  beautiful  Piazza 
di  San  Marco  sets  off  their  charms  especially  in  the  mild  sun- 
shine of  a  winter  or  early  spring  day,  when  the  old  church 
literally  radiates  golden  beams  reflected  from  the  fair  young 
faces  gazing  up  at  its  time  honoured  glories,  and  borrowing 
from  it  something  of  its  triumphant  elation  of  expression. 
And  when  the  sun  sinks  lower,  and  the  shadows  lengthen, 
the  capricious  beauties  in  stone  and  gold  become  transformed 
in  appearance,  their  features  gradually  grow  paler — one  is 
almost  tempted  to  say  more  diaphanous — these  marvellous 
creations  in  stone  which  affect  us  much  as  do  the  Thousand 
and  One  Nights  in  fiction,  as  the  sunshine  imprints  on  them 
the  hurried  farewell  kiss  of  the  short  winter  twilight,  and  day 
is  suddenly  converted  into  night, — soft,  soothing  gentle  night, 
reminding  us  of  the  smile  of  some  young  mother,  or  of  the 


1 62  VENICE 

rapt  ecstasy  of  some  devotee  before  the  figure  of  the  Redeemer 
in  a  quiet  village  church.  How  different  does  the  whole  scene 
appear  on  a  hot  summer's  day,  when  it  resembles  more  the 
dream  of  some  Oriental  potentate,  with  the  medley  of  turrets 
and  chapels,  the  golden  cupolas,  the  crosses,  the  weather- 
cocks, the  angels  and  saints,  in*  which  blue  and  gold  pre- 
dominate, standing  out  darkly,  yet  distinctly  and  imposingly, 
from  beneath  their  pale  gold  garlands  of  stone,  whilst  the 
greenish  grey  of  the  main  material  looks  leaden  by  contrast. 
Or  again  at  night  what  a  change  is  there,  when  everything 
around  is  steeped  in  darkness,  and  there  is  no  light  in  heaven 
but  the  pale  light  of  stars;  when  all  styles  are  blended  into 
one  harmonious  whole,  and  the  whole  mighty  mass  of  build- 
ings glows  as  with  the  white  heat  of  a  conflagration  before 
everything  falls  to  pieces  in  ashes;  when  the  great  lunettes 
gleam  like  huge  diamonds,  and  the  general  effect  is  of  some 
mysterious  unfathomable  choas,  the  very  spires  and  towers 
resembling  hieroglyphic  writing  traced  upon  the  night  sky 
by  the  invisible  hand  of  some  cyclops. 


THE  DOVES  OF  ST.  MARK'S 

HORATIO  F.  BROWN 

IN  Venice  the  pigeons  do  not  allow  you  to  forget  them, 
even  if  one  desired  to  forget  a  bird  that  is  so  intimately 
connected  with  the  city  and  with  a  great  ceremony  of 
that  ancient  Republic  which  has  passed  away.  They  belong  so 
entirely  to  the  place,  and  especially  to  the  great  square;  they 
have  made  their  home  for  so  many  generations  among  the 
carvings  of  the  Basilica,  at  the  feet  of  the  Bronze  Horses, 
and  under  the  massive  cornices  of  the  New  Procuratie,  that 
the  great  campanile  itself  is  hardly  more  essential  to  the 
character  of  the  Piazza  than  are  these  delicate  denizens  of 
St.  Mark's.  In  the  structure  of  the  Ducal  Palace  the  wants 
of  the  pigeons  have  been  taken  into  account,  and  near  the 
two  great  wells  which  stand  in  the  inner  courtyard,  little 
cups  of  Istrian  stone  have  been  let  into  the  pavement  for  the 
pigeons  to  drink  from.  On  cold  frosty  mornings  you  may 
see  them  tapping  disconsolately  at  the  ice  which  covers  their 
drinking  troughs,  and  may  win  their  thanks  by  breaking  it 
for  them.  Or  if  the  borin  blows  hard  from  the  east,  the 
pigeons  sit  in  long  rows  under  the  eaves  of  the  Procuratie; 
their  necks  drawn  into  their  shoulders,  and  the  neck  feathers 
ruffled  round  their  heads,  till  they  have  lost  all  shape,  and 
look  like  a  row  of  slate-coloured  cannon  balls. 

From  St.  Mark's  the  pigeons  have  sent  out  colonies  to  the 
163 


1 64  VENICE 

other  churches  and  camp'i  of  Venice,  they  have  crossed  the 
Grand  Canal,  and  roost  and  croon  among  the  volutes  of  the 
Salute,  or,  in  wild  weather,  wheel  high  and  airily  above  its 
domes.  They  have  even  found  their  way  to  Malamocco 
and  Mazzorbo;  so  that  all  Venice  in  the  sea  owns  and  pro- 
tects its  sacred  bird.  But  it  is  in  St.  Mark's  that  the 
pigeons  "  most  do  congregate  " ;  and  one  cannot  enter  the 
piazza  ar.J  stand  for  a  moment  at  the  corner  without  hearing 
the  sudden  rush  of  wings  upon  the  air,  and  seeing  the  white 
under  feathers  of  their  pinions,  as  the  doves  strike  backward 
to  check  their  flight,  and  flutter  down  at  one's  feet  in  expec- 
tation of  peas  or  grain.  They  are  boundlessly  greedy,  and 
will  stuff  themselves  till  they  can  hardly  walk,  and  the  little 
red  feet  stagger  under  the  loaded  crop.  They  are  not  vir- 
tuous, but  they  are  very  beautiful. 

There  is  a  certain  fitness  in  the  fact  that  the  dove  should 
be  the  sacred  bird  of  the  sea  city.  Both  English  "  dove  " 
and  Latin  columba  mean  the  diver;  and  the  dove  uses  the 
air  much  as  the  fish  uses  the  sea.  It  glides,  it  dives,  it  shoots 
through  its  airy  ocean ;  it  hovers  against  the  breeze,  or  presses 
its  breast  against  the  sirocco  storm,  as  you  may  see  fish 
poised  in  their  course  against  the  stream ;  then  with  a  sudden 
turn  it  relaxes  the  strain  and  sweeps  away  down  the  wind. 
The  dove  is  an  airy  emblem  of  the  sea  upon  which  Venice  and 
the  Venetians  live.  But  more  than  that ;  the  most  permanent 
quality  in  the  colour  of  the  lagoons,  where  the  lights  are 
always  shifting,  is  the  dove-tone  of  sea  and  sky ;  a  tone  which 
holds  all  colours  in  solution,  and  out  of  which  they  emerge 


THE   DOVES   OF   ST.   MARK'S    165 

as  the  water  ripples  or  the  cloud  flakes  pass;  just  as  the 
colours  are  shot  and  varied  on  a  young  dove's  neck. 

There  is  some  doubt  as  to  the  origin  of  these  flocks  of 
pigeons  which  shelter  in  St.  Mark's.  According  to  one 
story,  Henry  Dandolo,  the  crusader,  was  besieging  Candia; 
he  received  valuable  information  from  the  interior  of  the 
island  by  means  of  carrier-pigeons,  and,  later  on,  sent  news 
of  his  successes  home  to  Venice  by  the  same  messengers.  In 
recognition  of  these  services  the  government  resolved  to  main- 
tain the  carriers  at  the  public  cost;  and  the  flocks  of  to-day 
are  the  descendants  of  the  Fourteenth  Century  pigeons.  The 
more  probable  tradition,  however,  is  that  which  connects 
these  pigeons  with  the  antique  ceremonies  of  Palm  Sunday. 
On  that  festival  the  Doge  made  the  tour  of  the  Piazza,  ac- 
companied by  all  the  officers  of  state,  the  Patriarch,  the  for- 
eign ambassadors,  the  silver  trumpets, — all  the  pomp  of  the 
ducal  dignity.  Among  other  largess  of  that  day,  a  number 
of  pigeons,  weighted  by  pieces  of  paper  tied  to  their  legs,  used 
to  be  let  loose  from  the  gallery  where  the  Bronze  Horses 
stand,  above  the  western  door  of  the  church.  Most  of  the 
birds  were  easily  caught  by  the  crowd,  and  kept  for  their 
Easter  dinner;  but  some  escaped,  and  took  refuge  in  the  upper 
parts  of  the  palace  and  among  the  domes  of  Saint  Mark's. 
The  superstition  of  the  people  was  easily  touched,  and  the 
birds  that  sought  the  protection  of  the  saint  were  thenceforth 
dedicated  to  the  patron  of  Venice.  The  charge  of  support- 
ing them  was  committed  to  the  superintendents  of  the  corn 
stores,  and  the  usual  hour  for  feeding  the  pigeons  was  nine 


1 66  VENICE 

o'clock  in  the  morning.  During  the  revolution  of  1797  the 
birds  fared  as  badly  as  the  aristocracy;  but  when  matters 
settled  down  again  the  feeding  of  the  pigeons  was  resumed 
by  the  municipality,  and  takes  place  at  two  in  the  afternoon, 
though  the  incessant  largess  of  strangers  can  leave  the  birds 
but  little  appetite  for  their  regular  meal. 

In  spite  of  the  multitudes  of  pigeons  that  haunt  the  squares 
of  the  city,  a  dead  pigeon  is  as  rare  to  see  as  a  dead  donkey  on 
the  mainland.  It  is  a  pious  opinion  that  no  Venetian  ever 
kills  a  pigeon,  and  apparently  they  never  die ;  but  the  fact  that 
they  do  not  increase  so  rapidly  as  to  become  a  nuisance  instead 
of  a  pleasure,  lends  some  colour  to  the  suspicion  that  pigeon 
pies  are  not  unknown  at  certain  tables  during  the  proper 


THE  COLUMNS  OF  THE  PIAZZETTA 

JOHN  RUSK  IN 

G3  first  into  the  Piazzetta,  and  stand  anywhere  in 
the  shade,  where  you  can  well  see  its  granite  pillars. 
Your  Murray  tells  you  that  they  are  "  famous," 
and  that  the  one  is  "surmounted  by  the  bronze  lion  of  St. 
Mark,  the  other  by  the  statue  of  St.  Theodore,  the  Protector 
of  the  Republic." 

It  does  not,  however,  tell  you  why,  or  for  what  the  pillars 
are  "  famous."  Nor,  in  reply  to  a  question  which  might 
conceivably  occur  to  the  curious,  why  St.  Theodore  should 
protect  the  Republic  by  standing  on  a  crocodile ;  nor  whether 
the  "  bronze  lion  of  St.  Mark "  was  cast  by  Sir  Edwin 
Landseer, — or  some  more  ancient  and  ignorant  person ; — nor 
what  these  rugged  corners  of  limestone  rock,  at  the  bases  of 
the  granite,  were  perhaps  once  in  the  shape  of.  Have  you 
any  idea  why,  for  the  sake  of  any  such  things,  these  pillars 
were  once,  or  should  yet  be,  more  renowned  than  the  Monu- 
ment, or  the  column  of  the  Place  Vendome,  both  of  which 
are  much  bigger? 

Well,  they  are  famous,  first,  in  memorial  of  something 

which  is  better  worth  remembering  than  the  fire  of  London, 

or  the  achievements  of  the  great  Napoleon.     And  they  are 

famous,  or  used  to  be,  among  artists,  because  they  are  beau- 

167 


1 68  VENICE 

tiful  columns;  nay,  as  far  as  we  old  artists  know,  the  most 
beautiful  columns  at  present  extant  and  erect  in  the  conven- 
iently visitable  world. 

Each  of  these  causes  of  their  fame  I  will  try  in  some  dim 
degree  to  set  before  you. 

I  said  they  were  set  there  in  memory  of  things, — not  of 
the  man  who  did  the  things.  They  are  to  Venice,  in  fact, 
what  the  Nelson  column  would  be  to  London  if,  instead  of 
a  statue  of  Nelson  and  a  coil  of  rope,  on  the  top  of  it,  we 
had  put  one  of  the  four  Evangelists,  and  a  saint,  for  the  praise 
of  the  Gospel  and  of  Holiness; — trusting  to  the  memory  of 
Nelson  to  our  own  souls. 

However,  the  memory  of  the  Nelson  of  Venice,  being  now 
seven  hundred  years  old,  has  more  or  less  faded  from  the 
heart  of  Venice  herself,  and  seldom  finds  its  way  into  the 
heart  of  a  stranger.  Somewhat  concerning  him,  though  a 
stranger,  you  may  care  to  hear,  but  you  must  hear  it  in  quiet ; 
so  let  your  boatman  take  you  across  to  San  Giorgio  Mag- 
giore;  there  you  can  moor  your  gondola  under  the  steps  in 
the  shade,  and  read  in  peace,  looking  up  at  the  pillars  when 
you  like. 

In  the  year  1117,  when  the  Doge  Ordelafo  Falier  had 
been  killed  under  the  walls  of  Zara,  Venice  chose,  for  his 
successor,  Domenico  Michiel,  Michael  of  the  Lord,  "  Catto- 
lico  nomo  e  audace"  a  Catholic  and  brave  man,  the  servant 
of  God  and  of  St.  Michael. 

Venice  was  sincerely  pious,  and  intensely  covetous.  But 
not  covetous  merely  of  money.  She  was  covetous  first  of 


COLUMNS  OF  THE  PIAZZETTA   169 

fame;  secondly,  of  kingdom;  thirdly,  of  pillars  of  marble 
and  granite,  such  as  these  that  you  see ;  lastly,  and  quite  prin- 
cipally, of  the  relics  of  good  people. 

To  the  nation  in  this  religiously  covetous  hunger,  Bald- 
win appealed,  a  captive  to  the  Saracen.  The  Pope  sent  let- 
ters to  press  his  suit,  and  the  Doge  Michael  called  the  State 
to  Council  in  the  Church  of  St.  Mark.  There  he,  and  the 
Primate  of  Venice,  and  her  nobles,  and  such  of  the  people  as 
had  due  entrance  with  them,  by  way  of  beginning  the  busi- 
ness, celebrated  the  Mass  of  the  Holy  Spirit.  Then  the 
Primate  read  the  Pope's  letters  aloud  to  the  assembly;  then 
the  Doge  made  the  assembly  a  speech.  And  there  was  no 
opposition  party  in  that  parliament  to  make  opposition 
speeches;  and  there  were  no  reports  of  the  speech  next  morn- 
ing in  any  Times  or  Daily  Telegraph.  And  there  were  no 
plenipotentiaries  sent  to  the  East,  and  back  again.  But  the 
vote  passed  for  war. 

The  Doge  left  his  son  in  charge  of  the  State,  and  sailed 
for  the  Holy  Land,  with  forty  galleys  and  twenty-eight 
beaked  ships  of  battle — "ships  which  were  painted  with  divers 
colours,"  far  seen  in  pleasant  splendour.  Some  faded  like- 
ness of  them,  twenty  years  ago,  might  be  seen  in  the  painted 
sails  of  the  fishing-boats  which  lay  crowded,  in  lowly  lustre, 
where  the  development  of  civilisation  now  only  brings  black 
steam-tugs,  to  bear  the  people  of  Venice  to  the  bathing- 
machines  of  Lido,  covering  their  Ducal  Pqlace  with  soot, 
and  consuming  its  sculptures  with  sulphurous  acid. 

The  beaked  ships  of  the  Doge  Michael  had  each  a  hun- 


i7o  VENICE 

dred  oars;  —  each  oar  pulled  by  two  men,  not  accommodated 
with  sliding  seats,  but  breathed  well  for  their  great  boat- 
race  between  the  shores  of  Greece  and  Italy;  —  whose  names, 
alas,  with  the  names  of  their  trainers,  are  noteless  in  the  jour- 
nals of  the  barbarous  time. 

They  beat  their  way  across  the  waves,  nevertheless,1  to  the 
place  where  Dorcas  worked  for  the  poor,  and  St.  Peter 
lodged  with  his  namesake  tanner.  There,  showing  first  but 
a  squadron  of  a  few  ships,  they  drew  the  Saracen  fleet  out  to 
sea,  and  so  set  upon  them. 

And  the  Doge,  in  his  true  Duke's  place,  first  in  his  beaked 
ship,  led  for  the  Saracen  admiral's,  struck  her  and  sunk  her. 
And  his  host  of  falcons  followed  to  the  slaughter;  and  to  the 
prey  also,  —  for  the  battle  was  not  without  gratification  of 
the  commercial  appetite.  The  Venetians  took  a  number  of 
ships  containing  precious  silks  and  "  a  quantity  of  drugs  and 
pepper." 

After  which  battle,  the  Doge  went  up  to  Jerusalem,  there 
to  take  further  counsel  concerning  the  use  of  his  Venetian 
power;  and,  being  received  there  with  honour,  kept  his 
Christmas  in  the  mountain  of  the  Lord. 

In  the  council  of  war  that  followed,  debate  became  stern 
whether  to  undertake  the  siege  of  Tyre  or  Ascalon.  The 
judgments  of  men  being  at  pause,  the  matter  was  given  to 
the  judgment  of  God.  They  put  the  names  of  the  two  cities 
in  an  urn,  on  the  altar  of  the  Church  of  the  Sepulchre.  An 


of  course,  for  calm  and  adverse  winds,  only;  bright  sails 
full  to  the  helpful  breeze. 


COLUMNS  OF  THE  PIAZZETTA  171 

orphan  child  was  taken  to  draw  the  lots,  who,  putting  his 
hand  into  the  urn,  drew  out  the  name  of  Tyre. 

Which  name  you  may  have  heard  before,  and  read  per- 
haps words  concerning  her  fall — careless  always  when  the 
fall  took  place,  or  whose  sword  smote  her. 

She  was  still  a  glorious  city,  still  queen  of  the  treasures  of 
the  sea ;  chiefly  renowned  for  her  work  in  glass  and  in  purple ; 
set  in  command  of  a  rich  plain,  "  irrigated  with  plentiful 
and  perfect  waters,  famous  for  its  sugar-canes ;  '  forttuimaf 
she  herself,  upon  her  rock,  double  walled  towards  the  sea, 
treble  walled  to  the  land ;  and,  to  all  seeming,  unconquerable 
but  by  famine." 

You  will  not  expect  me  here,  at  St.  George's  steps,  to  give 
an  account  of  the  various  mischief  done  on  each  other  with 
the  dart,  the  stone,  and  the  fire,  by  the  Christian  and  Saracen, 
day  by  day.  The  steady  siege  went  on,  till  the  Tyrians  lost 
hope,  and  asked  terms  of  surrender.  They  obtained  security 
of  person  and  property,  to  the  indignation  of  the  Christian 
soldiery,  who  had  expected  the  sack  of  Tyre.  The  city  was 
divided  into  three  parts,  of  which  two  were  given  to  the  King 
of  Jerusalem,  the  third  to  the  Venetians. 

While  the  Doge  Michael  fought  for  the  Christian  King 
at  Jerusalem,  the  Christian  Emperor  at  Byzantium  attacked 
the  defenceless  states  of  Venice,  on  the  mainland  of  Dal- 
matia,  and  seized  their  cities.  Whereupon  the  Doge  set  sail 
homewards,  fell  on  the  Greek  islands  of  the  /Egean,  and 
took  the  spoil  of  them;  seized  Cephalonia;  recovered  the  lost 
cities  of  Dalmatia;  compelled  the  Greek  Emperor  to  sue  for 


1 72  VENICE 

peace, — gave  it,  in  angry  scorn;  and  set  his  sails  at  last  for 
his  own  Rialto,  with  the  sceptres  of  Tyre  and  Byzantium  to 
lay  at  the  feet  of  Venice.  Spoil  he  also  brought,  enough,  of 
such  commercial  kind  as  Venice  valued.  These  pillars  that 
you  look  upon,  of  rosy  and  grey  rock;  and  the  dead  bodies 
of  St.  Donato  and  St.  Isidore.  He  thus  returned  in  1126. 

Of  these  things,  then,  the  two  pillars  before  you  are 
"  famous  "  in  memorial.  What  in  themselves  they  possess 
deserving  honour,  we  will  next  try  to  discern.  But  you 
must  row  a  little  nearer  to  the  pillars,  so  as  to  see  them 
clearly. 

I  said  these  pillars  were  the  most  beautiful  known  to  me : — 
but  you  must  understand  this  saying  to  be  of  the  whole  pillar- 
group  of  base,  shaft,  and  capital, — not  only  of  their  shafts. 

You  know  so  much  of  architecture,  perhaps,  as  that  an 
"  order  "  of  it  is  the  system  connecting  a  shaft  with  its  capi- 
tal and  cornice.  And  you  can  surely  feel  so  much  of  archi- 
tecture, as  that  if  you  took  the  heads  off  these  pillars,  and 
set  the  granite  shaft  simply  upright  on  the  pavement,  they 
would  perhaps  remind  you  of  ninepins  or  rolling-pins,  but 
would  in  no  wise  contribute  either  to  respectful  memory  of 
the  Doge  Michael,  or  to  the  beauty  of  the  Piazzetta. 

Their  beauty  which  has  been  so  long  instinctively  felt  by 
artists,  consists  then  first  in  the  proportion,  and  then  in  the 
propriety  of  their  several  parts.  Do  not  confuse  proportion 
with  propriety.  An  elephant  is  as  properly  made  as  a  stag; 
but  it  is  not  so  gracefully  proportioned.  In  fine  architecture, 
and  all  other  fine  arts,  grace  and  propriety  meet. 


COLUMNS  OF  THE  PIAZZETTA  173 

I  will  take  the  fitness  first.  You  see  that  both  these  pil- 
lars have  wide  bases  of  successive  steps.1  You  can  feel  that 
these  would  be  "  improper  "  round  the  pillars  of  an  arcade 
in  which  people  walked,  because  they  would  be  in  the  way. 
But  they  are  proper  here,  because  they  tell  us  the  pillar 
is  to  be  isolated,  and  that  it  is  a  monument  of  importance. 
Look  from  these  shafts  to  the  arcade  of  the  Ducal  Pal- 
ace. Its  pillars  have  been  found  fault  with  for  wanting 
bases.  But  they  were  meant  to  be  walked  beside  without 
stumbling. 

Next  you  see  the  tops  of  the  capitals  of  the  great  pillars 
spread  wide,  into  flat  tables.  You  can  feel,  surely,  that  these 
are  entirely  "  proper,"  to  afford  room  for  the  statues  they 
are  to  receive,  and  that  the  edges,  which  bear  no  weight, 
may  "  properly  "  extend  widely.  But  suppose  a  weight  of 
superincumbent  wall  were  to  be  laid  on  these  pillars?  The 
extent  of  capital  which  is  now  graceful,  would  then  be 
weak  and  ridiculous. 

Thus  far  of  propriety,  whose  simple  laws  are  soon  satis- 
fied: next,  of  proportion. 

You  see  that  one  of  the  shafts, — the  St.  Theodore's, — is 
much  slenderer  than  the  other. 

One  general  law  of  proportion  is  that  a  slender  shaft 
should  have  a  slender  capital,  and  a  ponderous  shaft,  a  pon- 
derous one. 

But  had  this  law  been  here  followed,  the  companion  pil- 

1  Restored, — but  they  always  must  have  had  them,  in  some  such 
proportion. 


174  VENICE 

lars  would  have  instantly  become  ill-matched.  The  eye 
would  have  discerned  in  a  moment  the  fat  pillar  and  the 
lean.  They  would  never  have  become  the  fraternal  pillars — 
"  the  two  "  of  the  Piazzetta. 

With  subtle,  scarcely  at  first  traceable,  care,  the  designer 
varied  the  curves  and  weight  of  his  capitals;  and  gave  the 
massive  head  to  the  slender  shaft,  and  the  slender  capital  to 
the  massive  shaft.  And  thus  they  stand  in  symmetry,  and 
uncontending  equity. 

Next,  for  the  form  of  these  capitals  themselves,  and  the 
date  of  them. 

You  will  find  in  the  guide-books  that  though  the  shafts 
were  brought  home  by  the  Doge  in  1126,  no  one  could  be 
found  able  to  set  them  up  until  the  year  1171,  when  a  cer- 
tain Lombard,  called  Nicholas  of  the  Barterers,  raised  them, 
and  for  reward  of  such  engineering  skill,  bargained  that  he 
might  keep  tables  for  forbidden  games  of  chance  between 
the  shafts.  Whereupon  the  Senate  ordered  that  executions 
should  also  take  place  between  them. 

But  now  of  the  capitals  themselves.  If  you  are  the  least 
interested  in  architecture,  should  it  not  be  of  some  impor- 
tance to  you  to  note  the  style  of  them?  Twelfth  Century 
capitals,  as  fresh  as  when  they  came  from  the  chisel,  are  not 
to  be  seen  every  day,  or  everywhere ; — much  less  capitals  like 
these  a  fathom  or  so  broad  and  high!  And  if  you  know 
the  architecture  of  England  and  France  in  the  Twelfth  Cen- 
tury, you  will  find  these  capitals  still  more  interesting  from 
their  extreme  difference  in  manner.  Not  the  least  like  our 


COLUMNS  OF  THE  PIAZZETTA  175 

clumps  and  humps  and  cushions,  are  they?  For  these  are 
living  Greek  work,  still;  not  savage  Norman  or  clumsy 
Northumbrian,  these;  but  of  pure  Corinthian  race;  yet,  with 
Venetian  practicalness  of  mind,  solidified  from  the  rich  clus- 
ters of  light  leafage  which  were  their  ancient  form.  You 
must  find  time  for  a  little  practical  cutting  of  capitals  your- 
self, before  you  will  discern  the  beauty  of  these.  There  is 
nothing  like  a  little  work  with  the  fingers  for  teaching  the 
eyes. 

What  I  want  you  to  notice  now,  is  but  the  form  of  the 
block  of  Istrian  stone,  usually  with  a  spiral,  more  or  less 
elaborate,  on  each  of  its  projecting  angles.  For  there  is 
infinitude  of  history  in  that  solid  angle,  prevailing  over  the 
light  Greek  leaf. 

That  is  related  to  our  humps  and  clumps  at  Durham  and 
Winchester.  Here  is,  indeed,  Norman  temper,  prevailing 
over  Byzantine;  and  it  means, — the  outcome  of  that  quarrel 
of  Michael  with  the  Greek  Emperor.  It  means — western 
for  eastern  life,  in  the  mind  of  Venice.  It  means  her  fel- 
lowship with  the  western  chivalry;  her  triumph  in  the  Cru- 
sades,— triumph  over  her  own  foster  nurse,  Byzantium. 

Which  significances  of  it,  and  many  others  with  them, 
if  we  would  follow,  we  must  leave  our  stone-cutting  for  a 
little  while  and  map  out  the  chart  of  Venetian  history  from 
its  beginning  into  such  masses  as  we  may  remember  without 
confusion. 

But  since  this  will  take  time,  and  we  cannot  quite  tell 
how  long  it  may  be  before  we  get  back  to  the  Twelfth  Cen- 


176  VENICE 

tury  again,  and  to  our  Piazzetta  shafts,  let  me  complete 
what  I  can  tell  you  of  these  at  once. 

In  the  first  place,  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark  is  a  splendid  piece 
of  Eleventh  or  Twelfth  Century  bronze.  I  know  that  by 
the  style  of  him;  but  have  never  found  out  where  he  came 
from.1  I  may  now  chance  on  it,  however,  at  any  moment 
on  other  quests.  Eleventh  or  Twelfth  Century  the  lion — 
Fifteenth,  or  later,  his  wings;  very  delicate  in  feathei- 
workmanship,  but  with  little  lift  or  strike  in  them ;  decorative 
mainly.  Without  doubt  his  first  wings  were  thin  sheets  of 
beaten  bronze,  shred  in  plumage;  far  wider  in  their  sweep 
than  these.2 

The  statue  of  St.  Theodore,  whatever  its  age,  is  wholly 
without  merit.  I  can't  make  it  out  myself,  nor  find  record 
of  it:  in  a  stonemason's  yard,  I  should  have  passed  it  as 
modern.  But  this  merit  of  the  statue  is  here  of  little 
consequence. 

St.  Theodore  represents  the  power  of  the  Spirit  of  God  in 
all  noble  and  useful  animal  life,  conquering  what  is  venom- 
ous, useless,  or  in  decay:  he  differs  from  St.  George  in  con- 
tending with  material  evil,  instead  of  with  sinful  passion :  the 
crocodile  on  which  he  stands  is  the  Dragon  of  Egypt ;  slime- 

1 "  He  " — the  actual  piece  of  forged  metal,  I  mean. 

*  I  am  a  little  proud  of  this  guess,  for  before  correcting  this  sen- 
tence in  type,  I  found  the  sharp  old  wings  represented  faithfully  in 
the  wood  cut  of  Venice  in  1480,  in  the  Correr  Museum.  Durer,  in 
1500,  draws  the  present  wings;  so  that  we  get  their  date  fixed 
within  twenty  years. 


COLUMNS  OF  THE  PIAZZETTA    177 

begotten  of  old,  worshipped  in  its  malignant  power,  for  a 
God.  St.  Theodore's  martyrdom  was  for  breaking  such 
idols;  and  with  beautiful  instinct  Venice  took  him  in  her 
earliest  days  for  her  protector  and  standard-bearer,  repre- 
senting the  heavenly  life  of  Christ  in  men,  prevailing  over 
chaos  and  the  deep. 


THE  DUCAL    PALACE 

JOHN  RUSKIN 

THE    charm    which    Venice    still    possesses,    and 
which  for  the  last  fifty  years  has  rendered  it  the 
favourite  haunt  of  all  the  painters  of  picturesque 
subjects,  is  owing  to  the  effect  of  the  palaces  belonging  to  the 
period  we  have  now  to  examine,  mingled  with  those  of  the 
Renaissance. 

The  effect  is  produced  in  two  different  ways.  The  Re- 
naissance palaces  are  not  more  picturesque  in  themselves  than 
the  club-houses  of  Pall  Mall ;  but  they  become  delightful  by 
the  contrast  of  their  severity  and  refinement  with  the  rich  and 
rude  confusion  of  the  sea  life  beneath  them,  and  of  their 
white  and  solid  masonry  with  the  green  waves.  Remove 
from  beneath  them  the  orange  sails  of  the  fishing  boats,  the 
black  gliding  of  the  gondolas,  the  cumbered  decks  and  rough 
crews  of  the  barges  of  traffic,  and  the  fretfulness  of  the  green 
water  along  their  foundations,  and  the  Renaissance  palaces 
possess  no  more  interest  than  those  of  London  or  Paris.  But 
the  Gothic  palaces  are  picturesque  in  themselves,  and  wield 
over  us  an  independent  power.  Sea  and  sky,  and  every  other 
accessory  might  be  taken  away  from  them,  and  still  they 
would  be  beautiful  and  strange.  They  are  not  less  striking 
in  the  loneliest  streets  of  Padua  and  Vicenza  (where  many 
were  built  during  the  period  of  the  Venetian  authority  in  those 
cities)  than  in  the  most  crowded  thoroughfares  of  Venice 
178 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE          179 

itself;  and  if  they  could  be  transported  into  the  midst  of 
London,  they  would  still  not  altogether  lose  their  power  over 
the  feelings. 

The  best  proof  of  this  is  in  the  perpetual  attractiveness  of 
all  pictures,  however  poor  in  skill,  which  have  taken  for  their 
subject  the  principal  of  these  Gothic  buildings,  the  Ducal 
Palace.  In  spite  of  all  architectural  theories  and  teachings, 
the  paintings  of  this  building  are  always  felt  to  be  delight- 
ful; we  cannot  be  wearied  by  them,  though  often  sorely 
tried ;  but  we  are  not  put  to  the  same  trial  in  the  case  of  the 
palaces  of  the  Renaissance.  They  are  never  drawn  singly,  or 
as  the  principal  subject,  nor  can  they  be.  The  building 
which  faces  the  Ducal  Palace  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  Piazzetta  is  celebrated  among  architects,  but  it  is  not 
familiar  to  our  eyes;  it  is  painted  only  incidentally,  for  the 
completion,  not  the  subject  of  a  Venetian  scene;  and  even 
the  Renaissance  arcades  of  St.  Mark's  Place,  though  fre- 
quently painted,  are  always  treated  as  a  mere  avenue  to  its 
Byzantine  church  and  colossal  tower.  And  the  Ducal 
Palace  itself  owes  the  peculiar  charm  which  we  have  hitherto 
felt,  not  so  much  to  its  greater  size  as  compared  with  other 
Gothic  buildings,  or  nobler  designs  (for  it  never  yet  has 
been  rightly  drawn),  as  to  its  comparative  isolation.  The 
other  Gothic  structures  are  as  much  injured  by  the  continual 
juxtaposition  of  the  Renaissance  palaces,  as  the  latter  are 
aided  by  it;  they  exhaust  their  own  life  by  breathing  it  into 
the  Renaissance  coldness:  but  the  Ducal  Palace  stands  com- 
paratively alone,  and  fully  expresses  the  Gothic  power. 


i8o  VENICE 

And  it  is  just  that  it  should  be  so  seen,  for  it  is  the  original 
of  nearly  all  the  rest.  It  is  not  the  elaborate  and  more 
studied  development  of  a  national  style,  but  the  great  and 
sudden  invention  of  one  man,  instantly  forming  a  national 
style,  and  becoming  the  model  for  the  imitation  of  every 
architect  in  Venice  for  upwards  of  a  century.  It  was  the 
determination  of  this  one  fact  which  occupied  me  the  greater 
part  of  the  time  I  spent  in  Venice.  It  had  always  appeared 
to  me  most  strange  that  there  should  be  in  no  part  of  the  city 
any  incipient  or  imperfect  types  of  the  form  of  the  Ducal 
Palace;  it  was  difficult  to  believe  that  so  mighty  a  building 
had  been  the  conception  of  one  man,  not  only  in  disposition 
and  detail,  but  in  style;  and  yet  impossible,  had  it  been 
otherwise,  but  that  some  early  examples  of  approximate  Gothic 
form  must  exist.  There  is  not  one.  The  palaces  built  be- 
tween the  final  cessation  of  the  Byzantine  style,  about  1300, 
and  the  date  of  the  Ducal  Palace  (1320-1350),  are  all  com- 
pletely distinct  in  character,  and  there  is  literally  no  trans- 
itional form  between  them  and  the  perfection  of  the  Ducal 
Palace.  Every  Gothic  building  in  Venice  which  resembles 
the  latter  is  a  copy  of  it.  I  do  not  mean  that  there  was  no 
Gothic  in  Venice  before  the  Ducal  Palace,  but  that  the  mode 
of  its  application  to  domestic  architecture  had  not  been  deter^ 
mined.  The  real  root  of  the  Ducal  Palace  is  the  apse  of  the 
church  of  the  Frari.  The  traceries  of  that  apse,  though 
earlier  and  ruder  workmanship,  are  nearly  the  same  in 
mouldings,  and  precisely  the  same  in  treatment  (especially  in 
t;he  placing  of  the  lions'  heads) ,  as  those  of  the  great  Ducal 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE          181 

Arcade;  and  the  originality  of  thought  in  the  architect  of 
the  Ducal  Palace  consists  in  his  having  adopted  those  tra- 
ceries, in  a  more  highly  developed  and  finished  form  to  civil 
uses. 

The  reader  will  observe  that  the  Ducal  Palace  is  arranged 
somewhat  in  the  form  of  a  hollow  square,  of  which  one  side 
faces  the  Piazzetta,  and  another  the  quay  called  the  Riva 
dei  Schiavoni;  the  third  is  on  the  dark  canal  called  the  Rio 
del  Palazzo,  and  the  fourth  joins  the  Church  of  St.  Mark. 

Of  this  fourth  side,  therefore  nothing  can  be  seen.  Of  the 
other  three  sides  we  shall  have  to  speak  constantly ;  and  they 
will  be  respectively  called,  that  towards  the  Piazzetta,  the 
"  Piazzetta  Facade  " ;  and  that  towards  the  Riva  dei  Schi- 
avoni, the  "  Sea  Faqade  " ;  and  that  towards  the  Rio  del 
Palazzo,  the  "  Rio  Facade."  This  Rio,  or  canal,  is  usually 
looked  upon  by  the  traveller  with  great  respect,  or  even 
horror,  because  it  passes  under  the  Bridge  of  Sighs.  It  is, 
however  one  of  the  principal  thoroughfares  of  the  city ;  and 
the  bridge  and  its  canal  together  occupy  in  the  mind  of  a 
Venetian,  very  much  the  position  of  Fleet  Street  and  Temple 
Bar  in  that  of  a  Londoner, — at  least  at  the  time  when  Temple 
Bar  was  occasionally  decorated  with  human  heads.  The  two 
buildings  closely  resemble  each  other  in  form. 

We  must  now  proceed  to  obtain  some  rough  idea  of  the 
appearance  and  distribution  of  the  palace  itself;  but  its 
arrangement  will  be  better  understood  by  supposing  our- 
selves raised  some  hundred  and  fifty  feet  above  the  point  in 
the  lagoon  in  front  of  it,  so  as  to  get  a  general  view  of  the 


1 82  VENICE 

Sea  Facade  and  Rio  Fagade  (the  latter  in  very  steep  per- 
spective), and  to  look  down  into  its  interior  court.  We 
have  merely  to  notice  that,  of  the  two  bridges  seen  on  the 
right,  the  uppermost,  above  the  black  canal,  is  the  Bridge  of 
Sighs;  the  lower  one  is  the  Ponte  della  Paglia,  the  regular 
thoroughfare  from  quay  to  quay,  and  I  believe,  called  the 
Bridge  of  Straw,  because  the  boats  which  brought  straw 
from  the  mainland  used  to  sell  it  at  this  place.  The  corner 
of  the  palace  rising  above  this  bridge,  and  formed  by  the 
meeting  of  the  Sea  Facade  and  Rio  Facade,  will  always  be 
called  the  Vine  angle,  because  it  is  decorated  by  a  sculpture 
of  the  drunkenness  of  Noah.  The  angle  opposite  will  be 
called  the  Fig-tree  angle,  because  it  is  decorated  by  a  sculp- 
ture of  the  Fall  of  Man.  The  long  and  narrow  range  of 
building,  of  which  the  roof  is  seen  in  perspective  behind  this 
angle,  is  the  part  of  the  palace  fronting  the  Piazzetta;  and 
the  angle  under  the  pinnacle  most  to  the  left  of  the  two 
which  terminate  it  will  be  called  the  Judgment  angle.  Within 
the  square  formed  by  the  building  is  seen  its  interior  court 
(with  one  of  its  wells),  terminated  by  small  and  fantastic 
buildings  of  the  Renaissance  period,  which  face  the  Giants' 
Stair,  of  which  the  extremity  is  seen  sloping  down  on  the  left. 
The  great  facade  which  fronts  the  spectator  looks  south- 
ward. Hence  the  two  traceried  windows  lower  than  the 
rest,  and  to  the  right  of  the  spectator,  may  be  conveniently 
distinguished  as  the  "  Eastern  Windows."  There  are  two 
others  like  them,  filled  with  tracery,  and  at  the  same  level, 
which  look  upon  the  narrow  canal  between  the  Ponte  della 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE          183 

Paglia  and  the  Bridge  of  Sighs:  these  we  may  conveniently 
call  the  "  Canal  Windows." 

On  the  party  wall,  between  the  second  and  third  windows, 
which  faces  the  eastern  extremity  of  the  Great  Council 
Chamber,  is  painted  the  Paradise  of  Tintoret;  and  this  wall 
will  therefore  be  hereafter  called  the  "  Wall  of  the  Paradise." 

In  nearly  the  centre  of  the  Sea  Fagade,  and  between  the 
first  and  second  windows  of  the  Great  Council  Chamber,  is 
a  large  window  to  the  ground,  opening  on  a  balcony,  which 
is  one  of  the  chief  ornaments  of  the  palace,  and  will  be 
called  in  future  the  "  Sea  Balcony." 

The  fagade  which  looks  on  the  Piazzetta  is  very  nearly 
like  this  to  the  Sea,  but  the  greater  part  of  it  was  built  in 
the  Fifteenth  Century,  when  people  had  become  studious  of 
their  symmetries.  The  side  windows  are  all  on  the  same 
level.  Two  light  the  west  end  of  the  Great  Council  Cham- 
ber, one  lights  a  small  room  anciently  called  the  Quarantia 
Civil  Nuova;  the  other  three,  and  the  central  one,  with  a 
balcony  like  that  to  the  Sea,  light  another  large  chamber, 
called  Sala  del  Scrutinio,  or  "  Hall  of  Enquiry,"  which  ex- 
tends to  the  extremity  of  the  palace  above  the  Porta  della 
Carta. 

The  reader  is  now  well  enough  acquainted  with  the  topog- 
raphy of  the  existing  building  to  be  able  to  follow  the  ac- 
counts of  its  history. 

The  Ducal  Palace,  which  was  the  great  work  of  Venice, 
was  built  successively  in  the  three  styles.  There  was  a  Byzan- 
tine Ducal  Palace,  a  Gothic  Ducal  Palace,  and  a  Renaissance 


1 84  VENICE 

Ducal  Palace.  The  second  superseded  the  first  totally;  a 
few  stones  of  it  (if  indeed  so  much)  are  all  that  is  left. 
But  the  third  superseded  the  second  in  part  only,  and  the  ex- 
isting building  is  formed  by  the  union  of  the  two.  We  shall 
review  the  history  of  each  in  succession,  ist.  The  BYZAN- 
TINE PALACE. 

The  year  of  the  death  of  Charlemagne,  813,  the  Venetians 
determined  to  make  the  island  of  Rialto  the  seat  of  the 
government  and  capital  of  their  state.  Their  Doge,  Angelo 
or  Agnello  Participazio,  instantly  took  vigorous  means  for 
the  enlargement  of  the  small  group  of  buildings  which  were 
to  be  the  nucleus  of  the  future  Venice.  He  appointed  per- 
sons to  superintend  the  rising  of  the  banks  of  sand,  so  as  to 
form  more  secure  foundations,  and  to  build  wooden  bridges 
over  the  canals.  For  the  offices  of  religion  he  built  the 
Church  of  St.  Mark;  and  on,  or  near  the  spot  where  the 
Ducal  Palace  now  stands,  he  built  a  palace  for  the  administra- 
tion of  the  government. 

The  history  of  the  Ducal  Palace  therefore  begins  with  the 
birth  of  Venice,  and  to  what  remains  of  it,  at  this  day,  is 
entrusted  the  last  representation  of  her  power. 

Of  the  exact  position  and  form  of  this  palace  of  Parti- 
cipazio little  is  ascertained.  Sansovino  says  that  it  was  built 
near  the  Ponte  della  Paglia,  and  answeringly  on  the  Grand 
Canal  towards  San  Giorgio ;  that  is  to  say,  in  the  place  now 
occupied  by  the  Sea  Fagade;  but  this  was  merely  the  popu- 
lar report  of  his  day.  There  can  be  no  doubt  whatever 
that  the  palace  at  this  period  resembled  and  impressed  the 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE          185 

other  Byzantine  edifices  of  the  day,  such  as  the  Fondaco 
dei  Turchi,  etc. ;  and  that,  like  them,  it  was  covered  with 
sculpture,  and  richly  adorned  with  gold  and  colour. 

In  the  year  1106,  it  was  for  the  second  time  injured  by 
fire,  but  repaired  before  1116,  when  it  received  another  em- 
peror, Henry  V.  (of  Germany),  and  was  again  honoured 
by  imperial  praise.  Between  1173  and  the  close  of  the 
century,  it  seems  to  have  been  again  repaired  and  much 
enlarged  by  the  Doge  Sebastian  Ziani.  Sansovino  says  that 
this  Doge  not  only  repaired  it,  but  "  enlarged  it  in  every 
direction " ;  and  after  this  enlargement,  the  palace  seems 
to  have  remained  untouched  for  a  hundred  years,  in  the 
commencement  of  the  Fourteenth  Century,  the  works  of  the 
Gothic  Palace  were  begun.  The  old  palace,  of  which  half 
remains  to  this  day,  was  built  by  Sebastian  Ziani. 

So  far,  then,  of  the  Byzantine  Palace. 

2d.  The  GOTHIC  PALACE. — The  reader,  doubtless,  rec- 
ollects that  the  important  change  in  the  Venetian  govern- 
ment which  gave  stability  to  the  aristocratic  power  took 
place  about  the  year  1297,  under  the  Doge  Pietro  Grade- 
nigo,  a  man  thus  characterised  by  Sansovino : — "  A  prompt 
and  prudent  man,  of  unconquerable  determination  and  great 
eloquence,  who  laid,  so  to  speak,  the  foundations  of  the 
eternity  of  this  republic,  by  the  admirable  regulations  which 
he  introduced  into  the  government."  The  Serra  del  Consi- 
glio  fixed  the  numbers  of  the  Senate  within  certain  limits, 
and  it  conferred  upon  them  a  dignity  greater  than  they 
had  ever  before  possessed.  It  was  natural  that  the  altera- 


1 86  VENICE 

tion  in  the  character  of  the  assembly  should  be  attended  by 
some  change  in  the  size,  arrangement,  or  decoration  of  the 
chamber  in  which  they  sat. 

We  accordingly  find  it  recorded  by  Sansovino,  that  "  in 
1301  another  saloon  was  begun  on  the  Rio  del  Palazzo 
under  the  Doge  Gradenigo,  and  finished  in  1309,  in  which 
year  the  Grand  Council  first  sat  in  it."  In  the  first  year, 
therefore,  of  the  Fourteenth  Century,  the  Gothic  Ducal 
Palace  of  Venice  was  begun;  and  a>  the  Byzantine  Palace, 
was,  in  its  foundation,  coeval  with  the  state,  so  the  Gothic 
Palace,  was,  in  its  foundation,  coeval  with  that  of  the  aris- 
tocratic power.  Considered  as  the  principal  representation 
of  the  Venetian  school  of  architecture,  the  Ducal  Palace 
is  the  Parthenon  of  Venice,  and  Gradenigo  its  Pericles. 

But  the  newly  constituted  Senate  had  need  of  other  addi- 
tions to  the  ancient  palace  besides  the  Council  Chamber.  A 
short,  but  most  significant,  sentence  is  added  to  Sansovino's 
account  of  the  construction  of  that  room.  "  There  were 
near  it"  he  says,  "  the  Cancellaria,  and  the  Gheba  or  Gabbia, 
afterwards  called  the  Little  Tower." 

Gabbia  means  a  "  cage  " ;  and  there  can  be  no  question 
that  certain  apartments  were  at  this  time  added  at  the 
top  of  the  palace  and  on  the  Rio  Fagade,  which  were  to 
be  used  as  prisons.  Whether  any  portion  of  the  old  Tor- 
resella  still  remains  is  a  doubtful  question;  but  the  apart- 
ments at  the  top  of  the  palace,  in  its  fourth  story,  were 
still  used  for  prisons  as  late  as  the  beginning  of  the  Seven- 
teenth Century.  I  wish  the  reader  especially  to  notice  that 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE          187 

a  separate  tower  or  range  of  apartments  was  built  for  this 
purpose,  in  order  to  clear  the  government  of  the  accusa- 
tions so  constantly  made  against  them,  by  ignorant  or  partial 
historians,  of  wanton  cruelty  to  prisoners.  The  stories 
commonly  told  respecting  the  "  piombi  "  of  the  Ducal  Palace 
are  utterly  false.  Instead  of  being,  as  usually  reported, 
small  furnaces  under  the  leads  of  the  palace,  they  were 
comfortable  rooms,  with  good  flat  roofs  of  larch,  and  care- 
fully ventilated.1  The  new  chamber,  then,  and  the  pris- 
ons, being  built,  the  Great  Council  first  sat  in  their  retired 
chamber  on  the  Rio  in  the  year  1309. 

It  appears  from  the  entry  still  preserved  in  the  Archivio, 
and  quoted  by  Cadorin,  that  it  was  on  the  28th  of  Decem- 
ber, 1340,  that  the  commissioners  appointed  to  decide  on 
this  important  matter  gave  in  their  report  to  the  Grand 
Council,  and  that  the  decree  passed  thereupon  for  the  com- 
mencement of  a  new  Council  Chamber  on  the  Grand  Canal. 

The  room  then  begun  is  the  one  now  in  existence,  and  its 
building  involved  the  building  of  all  that  is  best  and  most 
beautiful  in  the  present  Ducal  Palace,  the  rich  arcades  of 
the  lower  stories  being  all  prepared  for  sustaining  this  Sala 
del  Gran  Consiglio. 

Its  decorations  and  fittings,  however,  were  long  in  com- 

1Bcttio,  Lettera:  "Those  who  wrote  without  having  seen  them 
described  them  as  covered  with  lead ;  and  those  who  have  seen  them 
know  that,  between  their  flat  timber  roofs  and  the  sloping  leaden 
roof  of  the  palace,  the  interval  is  five  metres  where  it  is  least,  and 
nine  where  it  is  greatest." 


1 88  VENICE 

pletion;  the  paintings  on  the  roof  being  only  executed  in 
1400.  They  represented  the  heavens  covered  with  stars, 
this  being,  says  Sansovino,  the  bearings  of  the  Doge  Steno. 
The  Grand  Council  sat  in  the  finished  chamber  for  the  first 
time  in  1423.  In  that  year  the  Gothic  Ducal  Palace  was 
completed.  It  had  taken,  to  build  it,  the  energies  of  the 
entire  period  which  I  have  above  described,  as  the  central 
one  of  her  life. 

3rd.  The  RENAISSANCE  PALACE. — I  must  go  back  a 
step  or  two,  in  order  to  be  certain  that  the  reader  under- 
stands clearly  the  state  of  the  palace  in  1423.  The  works 
of  addition  or  renovation  had  now  been  proceeding,  at  inter- 
vals, during  a  space  of  a  hundred  and  twenty-three  years. 
Three  generations  at  least  had  been  accustomed  to  witness 
the  gradual  advancement  of  the  form  of  the  Ducal  Palace 
into  more  stately  symmetry,  and  to  contrast  the  works  of 
sculpture  and  painting  with  which  it  was  decorated, — full 
of  the  life,  knowledge,  and  hope  of  the  Fourteenth  Cen- 
tury,— with  the  rude  Byzantine  chiselling  of  the  palace  of 
the  Doge  Ziani.  The  magnificent  fabric  just  completed,  of 
which  the  new  Council  Chamber  was  the  nucleus,  was  now 
habitually  known  in  Venice  as  the  "  Palazzo  Nuovo  " ;  and 
the  old  Byzantine  edifice,  now  ruinous  and  more  manifest 
in  its  decay  by  its  contrast  with  the  goodly  stones  of  the 
building  which  had  been  raised  at  its  side,  was  of  course 
known  as  the  "  Palazzo  Vecchb."  That  fabric,  however, 
still  occupied  the  principal  position  in  Venice.  The  new 
Council  Chamber  had  been  erected  by  the  side  of  it  towards 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE          189 

the  Sea;  but  there  was  not  the  wide  quay  in  front,  the 
Riva  dei  Schiavoni,  which  now  renders  the  Sea  Fagade  as 
important  as  that  to  the  Piazzetta.  There  was  only  a 
narrow  walk  between  the  pillars  and  the  water;  and  the 
old  palace  of  Ziani  still  faced  the  Piazzetta,  and  interrupted, 
by  its  decrepitude,  the  magnificence  of  the  square  where 
the  nobles  daily  met.  Every  increase  of  the  beauty  of  the 
new  palace  rendered  the  discrepancy  between  it  and  the 
companion  building  more  painful;  and  then  began  to  arise 
in  the  minds  of  all  men  a  vague  idea  of  the  necessity  of 
destroying  the  old  palace,  and  completing  the  front  of  the 
Piazzetta  writh  the  same  splendour  as  the  Sea  Fagade.  .  .  . 
The  Great  Council  Chamber  was  used  for  the  first  time 
on  the  day  when  Foscari  entered  the  Senate  as  Doge — 
the  3rd  of  April,  1423,  .  .  .  and  the  following  year, 
on  the  27th  of  March,  the  first  hammer  was  lifted  up  against 
the  old  palace  of  'Ziani. 

That  hammer  stroke  was  the  first  act  of  the  period  prop- 
erly called  the  "  Renaissance."  It  was  the  knell  of  the 
architecture  of  Venice, — and  of  Venice  herself. 

I  have  no  intention  of  following  out,  in  their  intricate 
details,  the  operations  which  were  begun  under  the  Foscari 
and  continued  under  succeeding  Doges  till  the  palace  as- 
sumed its  present  form:  but  the  main  facts  are  the  follow- 
ing :  The  palace  of  Ziani  was  destroyed ;  the  existing  f agade 
to  the  Piazzetta  built,  so  as  both  to  continue  and  to  resemble, 
in  most  particulars,  the  work  of  the  Great  Council  Cham- 
ber. It  was  carried  back  from  the  Sea  as  far  as  the  Judg- 


1 9o  VENICE 

ment  angle;  beyond  which  is  the  Porta  della  Carta,  begun 
in  1439,  and  finished  in  two  years,  under  the  Doge  Foscari; 
the  interior  buildings  connected  with  it  were  added  by  the 
Doge  Christopher  Moro  (the  Othello  of  Shakespeare)  in 
1462. 

But  whatever  buildings,  old  or  new,  stood  on  this  spot 
at  the  time  of  the  completion  of  the  Porta  della  Carta  were 
destroyed  by  another  great  fire  of  1479,  together  with  so 
much  of  the  palace  on  the  Rio  that,  though  the  saloon  of 
Gradenigo,  then  known  as  the  Sala  de'  Pregadi,  was  not 
destroyed,  it  became  necessary  to  reconstruct  the  entire 
facades  of  the  portion  of  the  palace  behind  the  Bridge 
of  Sighs,  both  towards  the  court  and  canal.  This  work 
was  entrusted  to  the  best  Renaissance  architects  of  the  close 
of  the  Fifteenth  and  opening  of  the  Sixteenth  Centuries; 
Antonio  Ricci  executing  the  Giant's  Staircase,  and  on  his 
absconding,  Pietro  Lombardo  taking  his  place.  The  whole 
work  must  have  been  completed  towards  the  middle  of  the 
Sixteenth  Century. 

But  the  palace  was  not  long  permitted  to  remain  in  this 
finished  form.  Another  terrific  fire,  commonly  called  the 
great  fire,  burst  out  in  1574,  and  destroyed  the  inner  fit- 
tings and  all  the  precious  pictures  of  the  Great  Council 
Chamber,  and  of  all  the  upper  rooms  on  the  Sea  Fagade, 
and  most  of  those  on  the  Rio  Fagade,  leaving  the  building  a 
mere  shell,  shaken  and  blasted  by  the  flames.  It  was  de- 
bated in  the  Great  Council  whether  the  ruin  should  not 
be  thrown  down,  and  an  entirely  new  palace  built  in  its 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE          191 

stead.  The  opinions  of  all  the  leading  architects  of  Venice 
were  taken,  respecting  the  safety  of  the  walls,  or  the  pos- 
sibility of  repairing  them  as  they  stood.  These  opinions, 
given  in  writing,  have  been  preserved,  and  published  by 
the  Abbe  Cadorin  in  the  work  already  so  often  referred  to; 
and  they  form  one  of  the  most  important  series  of  documents 
connected  with  the  Ducal  Palace. 

The  repairs  necessarily  undertaken  at  this  time  were 
however  extensive,  and  interfere  in  many  directions  with 
the  earlier  work  of  the  palace:  still  the  only  serious  altera- 
tion in  its  form  was  the  transposition  of  the  prisons,  formerly 
at  the  top  of  the  palace,  to  the  other  side  of  the  Rio  del 
Palazzo;  and  the  building  of  the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  to  connect 
them  with  the  palace,  by  Antonio  da  Ponte.  The  completion 
of  this  work  brought  the  whole  edifice  into  its  present  form ; 
with  the  exception  of  alterations  in  doors,  partitions,  and 
staircases  among  the  inner  apartments,  not  worth  noticing, 
and  such  barbarisms  and  defacements  as  have  been  suffered 
within  the  last  fifty  years,  by,  I  suppose,  nearly  every  build- 
ing of  importance  in  Italy. 


INTERIOR  OF  THE  DUCAL  PALACE 

THEOPHILE  GAUTIER 

INTO  this  strange  edifice, — at  once  a  palace,  senate, 
tribunal  and  prison  under  the  government  of  the  Re- 
public,— we  enter  by  a  charming  door  in  St.  Mark's 
corner,  between  the  pillars  of  St.  John  of  Acre  and  the 
great,  thick  column  supporting  the  entire  weight  of  the 
immense  white  and  rose  marble  wall  that  gives  such  an 
original  aspect  to  the  ancient  palace  of  the  Doges. 

This  door,  called  Delia  Carta,  is  in  charming  architec- 
tural taste,  adorned  with  little  columns,  trefoils  and  statues, 
without  counting  the  inevitable,  indispensable  winged  lion 
of  St.  Mark,  and  leads  into  the  great  interior  court  by  a 
vaulted  passage.  This  somewhat  singular  arrangement  of 
an  entrance  so  to  speak  placed  without  the  edifice  to  which  it 
leads  has  the  advantage  of  not  interfering  in  any  way  with 
the  unity  of  its  fagades,  which  are  not  broken  by  any  pro- 
jection except  that  of  their  monumental  windows. 

Before  passing  under  the  arcade,  let  us  glance  over  the 
exterior  of  the  palace  to  note  a  few  of  its  interesting  de- 
tails. Above  the  thick  and  robust  column  of  which  we  have 
just  spoken,  there  is  a  bas-relief  of  savage  aspect  represent- 
ing the  Judgment  of  Solomon  with  Mediaeval  costume 
and  a  certain  barbarity  of  execution  that  renders  it  hard  to 
recognise  the  subject.  The  bas-relief  opens  into  the  long 
twisted  little  columns  that  cordon  each  angle  of  the  building. 
192 


INTERIOR  OF  PALACE        193 

On  the  fagade  of  the  Piazzetta,  upon  the  second  gallery, 
two  columns  of  red  marble  mark  the  place  whence  the 
death  sentences  were  read, — a  custom  that  still  exists  to-day. 
All  the  capitals  are  in  exquisite  taste  and  inexhaustible  va- 
riety. Not  one  is  a  repetition.  They  contain  chimasrae, 
children,  angels,  fantastic  animals,  and  sometimes  Biblical 
or  historical  subjects,  mingled  with  foliage,  acanthus,  fruits 
and  flowers  that  forcibly  show  up  the  poverty  of  invention 
of  our  modern  artists:  several  bear  half  effaced  inscriptions 
in  Gothic  characters,  which  in  order  to  be  fluently  read 
would  require  a  skilful  paleographer.  There  are  twenty- 
seven  arcades  on  the  Mole  and  eighteen  on  the  Piaz- 
zetta. 

The  Porta  della  Carta  leads  you  to  the  Giants'  Stair- 
case, which  is  not  itself  gigantic,  but  takes  its  name  from 
the  two  colossi  of  Neptune  and  Mars,  a  dozen  feet  in  height, 
by  Sansovino,  standing  on  pedestals  at  the  top  of  the  flight. 
This  staircase,  leading  from  the  courtyard  to  the  second 
gallery  that  decks  the  interior  as  well  as  the  exterior  of 
the  palace,  was  erected  during  the  dogedom  of  Agostino 
Barbarigo  by  Antonio  Rizzo.  It  is  of  white  marble,  dec- 
orated by  Domenico  and  Bernardo  of  Mantua  with  ara- 
besques and  trophies  in  very  slight  relief,  but  of  such 
perfection  as  to  be  the  despair  of  all  the  ornamenters, 
carvers  and  engravers  in  the  world.  It  is  no  longer  archi- 
tecture, but  goldsmith's  work,  such  as  Benvenuto  Cellini 
and  Vechte  alone  could  produce.  Every  morsel  of  this 
open  balustrade  is  a  world  of  invention ;  the  weapons  and 


194  VENICE 

casques  of  every  bas-relief,  each  one  different,  are  of  the 
rarest  fancy  and  the  purest  style;  even  the  slabs  of  the  steps 
are  ornamented  with  exquisite  niello,  and  yet  who  knows 
anything  of  Domenico  and  Bernardo  of  Mantua?  The 
memory  of  mankind,  already  wearied  with  a  hundred  illus- 
trious names,  refuses  to  retain  any  more,  and  consigns  to 
oblivion  names  that  are  deserving  of  all  glory. 

If  we  turn  around  on  reaching  the  head  of  this  staircase, 
we  see  the  inner  side  of  the  doorway  of  Bartolomeo,  flow- 
ered over  with  volutes  and  plated  with  little  columns  and 
statues,  with  remnants  of  blue  painting  starred  with  gold 
in  the  tympanums  of  the  arch.  Among  the  statues,  one  in 
particular  is  very  remarkable:  it  is  an  Eve  by  Antonio 
Rizzio  of  Verona,  carved  in  1471.  The  other  side,  facing 
the  wells,  was  built  in  1607  in  the  style  of  the  Renaissance, 
with  columns  and  niches  full  of  antique  statues  from 
Greece,  representing  warriors,  orators,  and  divinities.  A 
clock  and  a  statue  of  the  Duke  Urbino,  carved  by  Gio 
Bandini  of  Florence  in  1625,  complete  this  severe  and  classic 
front. 

Letting  your  glance  fall  towards  the  middle  of  the  court, 
you  see  what  look  like  magnificent  bronze  altars.  They  are 
the  mouths  of  the  cisterns  of  Nicolo  de  Conti  and  Fran- 
cesco Alberghetti.  The  first  dates  from  1556,  the  second 
from  1559.  Both  are  masterpieces.  Besides  the  obligatory 
accompaniment  of  griffins,  sirens,  and  chiasrae,  various 
aquatic  subjects  taken  from  the  Scriptures,  are  represented  in 
them.  One  could  not  imagine  such  richness  of  invention, 


INTERIOR   OF  PALACE        195 

such  exquisite  taste,  such  perfection  of  carving,  nor  such 
finished  work  as  is  displayed  by  the  kerbs  of  these  wells 
enriched  with  the  polish  and  verdigris  of  time.  Even  the 
inside  of  the  mouth  is  plated  with  thin  sheets  of  bronze 
branched  with  a  damaskeen  of  arbesques.  These  two  wells 
are  said  to  contain  the  best  water  in  Venice. 

Near  the  Giants'  Staircase  is  an  inscription  framed  with 
ornaments  and  figures  by  Alessandro  Vittoria  recalling  the 
passage  of  Henry  III.  through  Venice;  and  farther  on  in 
the  gallery  at  the  approach  to  the  golden  staircase  are  two 
statues  by  Antonio  Aspetti,  Hercules  and  Atlas  bending 
beneath  the  starry  firmament,  the  weight  of  which  the 
mighty  hero  is  about  to  transfer  to  his  own  bull-neck.  This 
magnificent  staircase,  adorned  with  stuccos  by  Vittoria  and 
paintings  by  Giambatista,  is  by  Sansovino  and  leads  to  the 
library  which  now  occupies  several  rooms  of  the  palace  of 
the  Doges.  To  attempt  to  describe  them  one  by  one  would 
be  a  work  of  patience  and  erudition  that  would  require 
a  whole  volume. 

The  old  hall  of  the  Grand  Council  is  one  of  the  largest 
you  could  find  anywhere.  The  Court  of  Lions  at  the  Al- 
hambra  would  easily  go  inside  it.  On  entering,  you  stand 
still,  struck  with  astonishment.  By  an  effect  that  is  some- 
what frequently  found  in  architecture,  this  hall  looks  much 
larger  than  the  building  that  contains  it.  A  sombre  and 
severe  wainscoting  where  bookcases  have  taken  the  place 
of  the  seats  of  the  old  senators,  serves  as  a  plinth  for  im- 
mense paintings  that  extend  all  around  the  walls,  broken 


196 

only  by  windows,  below  a  line  of  portraits  of  the  Doges 
and  a  colossal  gilded  ceiling  of  incredible  exuberance  of  orna- 
mentation, with  great  compartments,  square,  octagonal  and 
oval,  with  foliage,  volutes,  and  rock-work  in  a  taste  scarcely 
appropriate  to  the  style  of  the  palace,  but  so  imposing  and 
magnificent  that  you  are  quite  dazzled  by  it.  Unfortu- 
nately the  pictures  by  Paul  Veronese,  Tintoret,  Palma  the 
Younger,  and  other  great  masters,  that  filled  these  superb 
frames  have  now  been  removed  on  account  of  indispensable 
repairs. 

That  side  of  the  hall  by  which  you  enter  is  entirely  occu- 
pied by  a  gigantic  Paradise  by  Tintoret,  which  contains  a 
world  of  figures.  It  is  a  strong  painting  and  it  is  a  pity  that 
time  has  so  greatly  darkened  it.  The  smoky  shadows  that 
cover  it  belong  to  a  Hell  rather  to  a  Glory.  Behind  this 
canvas,  a  fact  that  we  have  not  been  in  a  position  to  verify, 
it  is  said  that  there  is  an  ancient  Paradise  painted  in  green 
camaieu  upon  the  wall  by  Guariento  of  Padua  in  1365.  It 
would  be  curious  to  be  able  to  compare  this  green  Paradise 
with  the  black  one.  It  is  only  Venice  that  has  one  depth 
of  painting  below  another. 

This  hall  is  a  kind  of  Versailles  museum  of  Venetian 
history,  with  the  difference  that  if  the  exploits  are  not 
so  great,  the  painting  is  far  better.  It  is  impossible  to  im- 
agine a  more  wonderful  effect  than  is  produced  by  this 
immense  hall  entirely  covered  by  these  pompous  paintings 
that  excel  in  the  Venetian  genius.  Above  these  great  his- 
torical scenes  is  a  row  of  portraits  of  the  Doges  by  Tin- 


INTERIOR  OF  PALACE        197 

toret,  Bassano,  and  other  painters;  as  a  rule  they  have  a 
smoky  and  bearded  appearance,  although,  contrary  to  the 
impression  we  form,  they  have  no  beards.  In  one  corner 
the  eye  is  arrested  at  an  empty  and  black  frame  that  makes 
a  hole  as  dark  as  a  tomb  in  this  chronological  gallery.  It 
is  the  space  that  should  be  occupied  by  the  portrait  of 
Marino  Faliero,  as  told  by  this  inscription:  Locus  Marini 
Phaletri,  decapitati  pro  criminibus.  All  the  effigies  of  Ma- 
rino Faliero  were  also  destroyed,  so  that  his  portrait  may 
be  said  to  be  undiscoverable.  However,  it  is  pretended 
that  there  is  one  in  the  possession  of  an  amateur  at  Verona. 
The  republic  wanted  to  destroy  the  memory  of  this  haughty 
old  man  who  brought  it  within  an  inch  of  ruin  in  revenge  for 
a  youth's  jest  that  was  sufficiently  punished  by  a  few  month's 
imprisonment.  To  finish  with  Marino  Faliero,  let  us  note 
that  he  was  not  beheaded  at  the  head  of  the  Giants'  Stair- 
case, as  is  represented  in  several  prints,  since  that  stairway 
was  not  built  till  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  later,  but  in  the 
opposite  corner  at  the  other  end  of  the  gallery,  upon  the  top 
of  a  flight  of  steps  since  demolished. 

We  will  now  name  the  most  celebrated  chambers  of  the 
palace  without  pretending  to  describe  them  in  detail.  In 
the  chamber  dei  Scarlatti  the  chimney-piece  is  covered  with 
marble  reliefs  of  the  finest  workmanship.  On  the  impost 
also  is  seen  a  very  curious  bas-relief  in  marble  represent- 
ing the  Doge  Loredan  on  his  knees  before  the  Virgin  and 
Child,  accompanied  by  several  saints, — an  admirable  piece 
of  work  by  an  unknown  artist.  The  Hall  of  the  Shield: 


198  VENICE 

here  the  arms  of  the  living  Doge  were  emblazoned.  It  is 
hung  with  geographical  charts  by  the  Abbe  Grisellini  that 
trace  the  discoveries  of  Marco  Polo,  so  long  treated  as 
fabulous,  and  of  other  illustrious  Venetian  travellers,  such 
as  Zeni  and  Cabota.  Here  also  is  kept  a  globe,  found  on 
a  Turkish  galley,  engraved  upon  wood  and  of  strange  con- 
figuration being  in  accordance  with  Oriental  ideas  and  cov- 
ered with  Arabic  characters  cut  with  marvellous  delicacy; 
also  a  great  bird's-eye  view  of  Venice  by  Albert  Diirer, 
who  made  a  long  stay  in  the  city  of  the  Doges.  The  aspect 
of  the  city  is  generally  the  same  as  to-day,  since  for  three 
centuries  one  stone  has  not  been  laid  upon  another  in  the 
Italian  cities. 

In  the  Hall  of  the  Philosophers  a  very  beautiful  chimney- 
piece  by  Pietro  Lombardo  is  to  be  noticed.  The  Hall  of 
Stuccos,  so  called  because  of  its  ornamentation,  contains 
paintings  by  Salviati,  Pordenone,  and  Bassano:  the  Virgin, 
a  Descent  from  the  Cross,  and  the  Nativity  of  Jesus  Christ. 
The  banquet-hall  is  where  the  Doge  used  to  give  certain 
feasts  of  etiquette, — diplomatic  dinners,  as  we  should  say 
to-day.  Here  we  see  a  portrait  of  Henry  III.  by  Tintoret, 
very  strong  and  very  fine;  and  facing  the  door  is  the  Adora- 
tion of  the  Magi,  a  warm  painting  by  Bonifazio,  that  great 
master  of  whose  work  we  possess  scarcely  anything  in  Paris. 
The  Hall  of  the  Four  Doors  has  a  square  anteroom,  the 
ceiling  of  which,  painted  by  Tintoret,  represents  Justice 
giving  the  sword  and  scales  to  the  Doge  Priuli.  The  four 
doors  are  adorned  with  statues  of  grand  form  by  Giulio 


INTERIOR  OF  PALACE        199 

del  Moro,  Francesco  Caselli,  Girolamo  Campagna,  and 
Alessandro  Vittoria;  the  paintings  that  enrich  the  room 
are  masterpieces. 

From  this  hall  let  us  pass  into  the  Anti-Collegio :  it  is 
the  waiting-room  of  the  ambassadors,  the  architecture  being 
by  Scamozzi.  The  envoys  of  the  various  powers  who  came 
to  present  their  credentials  to  the  Most  Serene  Republic 
could  scarcely  have  been  in  a  hurry  to  be  introduced:  the 
masterpieces  crowded  with  such  lavishness  into  this  splendid 
anteroom  would  induce  any  one  to  be  patient.  The  four 
pictures  near  the  door  are  by  Tintoret,  and  among  his  best. 
These  are  the  subjects:  Mercury  and  the  Graces;  Vulcan's 
Forge;  Pallas,  accompanied  by  Joy  and  Abundance,  chasing 
Mars;  and  Ariadne  consoled  by  Bacchus.  Apart  from  a  few 
rather  forced  foreshortenings  and  a  few  violent  attitudes 
in  which  this  master  took  pleasure  on  account  of  their  dif- 
ficulty, we  can  do  nothing  but  praise  the  virile  energy  of 
touch,  the  warmth  of  colour,  the  truth  of  the  flesh,  the 
life-like  power  and  that  forceful  and  charming  grace  that 
distinguishes  mighty  talents  when  they  have  to  render  sweet 
and  gentle  subjects. 

But  the  marvel  of  this  sanctuary  of  art  is  the  Rape  of 
Europa,  by  Paul  Veronese.  What  lovely  white  shoulders! 
what  blonde  curling  tresses!  what  round  and  charming 
arms!  what  smiles  of  eternal  youth  in  this  wonderful  can- 
vas in  which  Paul  Veronese  seems  to  have  spoken  his  final 
word!  Sky,  clouds,  trees,  flowers,  meadows,  seas,  tints, 
draperies,  all  seem  bathed  in  the  glow  of  an  unknown 


200  VENICE 

Elysium.  If  we  had  to  choose  one  single  example  of  all 
Paul  Veronese's  work,  this  is  the  one  we  should  prefer:  it 
is  the  most  beautiful  pearl  in  this  rich  casket. 

On  the  ceiling  the  great  artist  has  seated  his  dear  Venice 
on  a  golden  throne  with  that  amplitude  of  drapery  and  that 
abundant  grace  of  which  he  possesses  the  secret.  For  this 
Assumption,  in  which  Venice  takes  the  place  of  the  Virgin, 
he  always  knows  how  to  find  fresh  blues  and  new  radiance. 

The  magnificent  chimney-piece  by  Aspetti,  a  stucco  cor- 
nice by  Vittoria  and  Bombarda,  blue  camaieu  by  Sebastian 
Rizzi,  and  columns  of  verde  antique  and  Cipolin  marble 
framing  the  door  complete  this  marvellous  decoration  in 
which  shines  the  most  beautiful  of  all  luxuries,  that  of 
genius. 

The  reception-hall,  or  the  Collegio,  comes  next.  Here 
we  find  Tintoret  and  Paul  Veronese,  the  former  red  and 
violent,  the  other  azure  and  calm;  the  first,  suited  to  great 
expanses  of  wall,  the  second,  for  immense  ceilings.  We  will 
not  speak  of  the  camaieu,  the  grisailles,  the  columns  of  verde 
antique,  the  little  arches  of  flowered  jasper  and  sculptures 
by  G.  Campagna:  we  should  never  finish  and  those  are 
the  ordinary  sumptuous  details  in  the  palace  of  the  Doges. 

There  are  many  other  admirable  rooms  in  the  Ducal 
Palace  that  we  have  not  mentioned.  The  Hall  of  the 
Council  of  Ten,  the  Hall  of  the  Supreme  Council,  the 
Hall  of  the  State  Inquisitors,  and  many  others.  Upon 
their  walls  and  ceilings  sit  side  by  side  the  apotheosis  of 
Venice  and  the  Assumption  of  the  Virgin;  the  Doges  on 


INTERIOR  OF  PALACE        201 

their  knees  before  some  Madonnas  or  other;  and  mytho- 
logical heroes  or  fabulous  gods;  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark  and 
Jupiter's  eagle;  the  Emperor  Frederick  Barbarossa  and  a 
Neptune;  Pope  Alexander  III.  and  a  short-kilted  Allegory; 
mix  up  stories  from  the  Bible  and  holy  Virgins  beneath 
baldaquins  with  captures  of  Zara  embroidered  with  more 
numerous  episodes  than  one  of  Ariosto's  songs,  surprises  of 
Candia  and  jumbles  of  Turks;  carve  the  doorcases;  cover 
the  cornices  with  mouldings  and  stucco;  set  up  statues  in 
every  corner;  lay  gold  upon  everything  that  is  not  covered 
by  the  brush  of  a  superior  artist;  say:  "All  those  who  have 
laboured  here,  even  the  obscure,  had  twenty  times  as  much 
talent  as  our  celebrities  of  the  present  day;  and  the  greatest 
masters  have  employed  their  lives  here " ;  and  then  you 
will  have  a  feeble  idea  of  all  this  magnificence  that  defies 
description.  Painters,  whose  names  are  not  uttered  once 
a  century,  here  hold  their  place  in  most  terrible  proximi- 
ties. You  would  say  that  genius  was  in  the  air  at  that 
climacteric  epoch  of  human  progress  and  that  nofhing  was 
easier  than  to  produce  masterpieces.  The  sculptors  espe- 
cially, of  whom  no  one  ever  speaks,  display  extraordinary 
talent  and  are  not  in  the  least  inferior  to  the  greatest 
painters. 


THE  CARNIVAL 

CHARLES  YRIARTE 

A""  the  Carnival  it  is  from  the  Piazza  and  the  Piaz- 
zetta  that  the  processions  start  and  all  the  exhi- 
bitions and  performances  of  this  mad  season.  And 
everything  takes  place  to-day  just  as  it  did  yesterday  and 
as  it  did  two  hundred,  or  even  five  hundred  years  ago,  as  is 
shown  in  a  pretty  composition  by  Vanutelli  which  we  found 
in  the  Gallery  of  the  Princess  Matilda.  The  painter  has 
placed  his  scene  under  the  arcades  of  the  Ducal  Palace;  it  is 
there  that  to-day  a  whole  troupe  of  masqueraders  come  to 
play  their  lazzi,  for  the  Carnival  of  Venice,  which  is  just  as 
celebrated  as  the  Roman  Carnival  and  which  has  served  as  a 
theme  for  poets  and  musicians  and  on  which  Gozzi,  Paga- 
nini  and  Theophile  Gautier  have  embroidered  their  Pizzi- 
cati,  is  not  so  dead  as  people  would  have  us  believe;  the 
tradition  exists  if  the  genius  of  the  people  has  changed.  The 
Carnival  week,  though  quieter  than  it  used  to  be,  still  attracts 
strangers;  it  is  the  season  of  intrigues  and  festivals  when 
the  entire  population  seems  intoxicated  by  the  very  air. 
There  are  two  very  distinct  parts  in  the  Carnival  of  Venice: 
the  carnival  of  the  street  and  the  carnival  of  the  drawing- 
room.  Not  long  ago  people  went  masqued  to  St.  Mark's 
Place  and  the  Fenice,  and  gave  themselves  up  to  merry  mys- 
tifications that  recalled  the  good  old  days  of  Venice  in  the 


THE  CARNIVAL  203 

Eighteenth  Century;  this  was  the  age  of  supper-parties, 
barcarolles,  serenades  and  Venetian  festivals,  which  last 
words  include  everything.  To-day  the  aristocracy  is  re- 
served and  discreet ;  a  few  swell  masquerades,  a  few  masqued 
balls  given  in  a  setting  worthy  of  the  costumes,  a  few  gay 
suppers  and  a  few  serenades,  and  the  festival  is  over. 
Guardi,  the  painter  of  delicate  touch,  the  piquant  colourist, 
shows  us  the  balls  in  the  Ducal  Palace,  the  Ridotti,  the 
promenaders  on  the  Piazza,  with  their  black  velvet  masques, 
their  three  cornered  hats,  and  that  Venetian  cloak  that  has 
become  the  livery  for  carnival  gaieties  throughout  Europe. 
Of  all  this  nothing  remains  now,  and  what  is  left  is  difficult 
to  describe  and  would  escape  the  notice  of  a  passing  stranger ; 
one  must  be  of  Venetian  origin  to  enter,  or  even  be  ad- 
mitted to,  these  pleasures  and  to  appreciate  their  charm. 

But  the  street  is  more  lively;  the  corporations  club 
together  and  give  the  city  a  show;  each  year  they  have  a 
new  idea  and  a  new  way  of  executing  it:  an  allegorical 
car,  a  Bucentaur,  a  scene  full  of  life  and  colour  in  which 
the  celebrated  heroes,  Vesta  Zenda  and  Tato  are  seen,  and 
the  illustratious  Pantaloon  harangues  the  crowd  from  his 
throne  erected  on  the  Piazzetta  in  front  of  the  two  large 
granite  columns.  Pantaloon  has  arrived  at  the  head  of  his 
procession  which  assembled  in  the  court  of  the  deserted  con- 
vent of  San  Sepolcra ;  he  goes  the  whole  length  of  the  Riva 
dei  Schiavoni,  preceded  by  his  Turkish  guards ;  bridges  have 
been  thrown  across  the  canals  that  intersect  the  quay,  so 
that  nothing  interrupts  the  masquerade  along  its  route. 


204  VENICE 

The  painters  of  the  Arsenal  and  painters  of  other  buildings, 
all  in  costume,  form  a  guild  and  sing  choruses;  other  civic 
guilds  form  themselves  into  brass  bands,  for  there  are  no 
festivals  without  music  in  Venice. 

The  procession  is  long  and  the  whole  city  follows  it; 
the  banners  that  are  carried  in  front  of  it  are  borne  by 
men  dressed  as  Turks,  and  another  body  pretends  to  guard 
them;  behind  them  follow  the  Chioggiotti,  the  fish-vendors 
of  Chioggia,  who  carry  on  their  arms  elegant  baskets  filled 
with  fish  made  of  sugar,  which  they  throw  into  the  balconies 
all  along  the  way;  and  the  whole  street  presents  a  number 
of  those  grotesque  scenes  that  have  been  preserved  by 
Guardi's  brush. 

After  the  Chioggiotti,  who  have  their  own  band,  usually 
costumed  in  mediaeval  dress,  come  the  Epigrams  of  the 
year:  these  are  monster  masques,  gigantic  personages  who 
recall  those  occurring  in  the  carnivals  of  the  northern  cities 
of  France;  they  are  numerous  and  always  represent  a  satiri- 
cal epigram  in  allusion  to  a  celebrity  of  the  season,  or  some 
actual  event  is  symbolised  by  each  person.  Often  a  political 
personage  is  chosen  for  the  allusion,  and  many  times,  in- 
deed, the  authorities  have  had  to  intervene  and  prevent  the 
caricature  of  a  foreign  minister  or  sovereign. 

After  the  great  masques  come  groups  of  all  kinds,  follow- 
ing according  to  popular  fancy;  but  there  is  nearly  always 
a  general  idea  for  the  whole  procession,  the  burlesque 
groups  forming  detached  episodes,  framed  in  the  whole; 
nobody  is  deceived  by  anything  and  there  is  great  applause. 


THE  CARNIVAL  205 

Arriving  at  the  Piazzetta,  Pantaloon,  who  is  king  of  the 
festival,  mount"-  his  throne  and  harangues  the  crowd  in 
Venetian  dialect,  and,  as  he  can  wag  his  tongue  glibly,  the 
people  reward  him  with  acclamations.  He  descends,  re- 
sumes his  place  at  the  head  of  the  procession  and  goes  to 
the  Piazza,  in  the  centre  of  which  a  circular  ball-room, 
about  the  height  of  the  Cafe  Florian  and  Cafe  Quadri,  has 
been  erected.  The  orchestra  takes  its  place  and  the  most 
important  masquers  lead  the  dances;  the  Piazza,  is  filled, 
and  the  crowd  is  lively,  joyous  and  bright  with  colour;  a 
great  number  of  people  wear  fancy  costumes  and  take  an 
active  part  in  the  amusements. 

This  is  the  overture  to  the  popular  festival,  the  inaugura- 
tion of  the  Carnival,  and  as  these  people  thoroughly  under- 
stand how  to  provide  amusements,  every  day  brings  a  new 
pleasure  and  surprise.  In  the  evening  the  Piazza  we  are 
describing  is  fairy-like;  it  is  very  brilliantly  lighted  by  a 
method  used  only  on  these  occasions:  if  it  is  fine  weather 
you  can  walk  about  in  dancing-shoes,  for  as  the  Piazza,  is 
paved,  it  is  a  veritable  ball-room;  the  cafes  are  crowded  at 
this  time;  the  tables  are  even  carried  into  the  middle 
of  the  Piazza  and  you  can  stroll  about  in  the  open  air  as  if 
you  were  at  a  gigantic  ball. 


RIVA  DEI  SCHIAVONI 

JULIA  CARTWRIGHT 

NEXT  to  the  Piazza  the  Riva  dei  Schiavoni  is,  per- 
haps, the  most  attractive  place  in  Venice.     It  is 
not  only  for  the  sake  of  the  view,  although  that 
is  magnificent,  or  for  S.  Giorgio — best  beloved  of  all  lesser 
Venetian  shrines — opposite;  but  it  is  because  there  you  see 
whatever  is  left  of  the  vivacity  and  joyousness  of  Venetian 
life.     At  Florian's  you  may  see  the  more  elegant  side  of 
society,  more  of  the  dandies  and  the  well  dressed  ladies,  and 
the  foreigners  and  tourists,  but  on  the  Riva  you  have  the 
life  of  the  people. 

This  is  the  place  for  the  artist  who  knows  dexterously 
to  combine  groups  of  figures  with  shipping  and  buildings. 
He  has  but  to  take  his  stand  on  a  balcony  overlooking  the 
Riva,  or  under  the  vine-trellis  of  one  of  the  numerous  cafes, 
or  osterias,  along  the  quay,  and  he  will  see  every  type  and 
variety  conceivable.  Sailors  of  all  countries  throng  the  doors, 
ships  from  all  parts  of  the  world  are  seen  by  the  side  of 
those  red  and  orange  Chioggia  sails,  which  are  familiar  objects 
in  all  Venetian  drawings.  The  scene  is  always  lively  and 
amusing.  From  early  dawn  the  shrill  voices  of  the  street- 
sellers  make  themselves  heard  under  your  windows.  The 
cries  "Aqua!  polenta!  pomi  d'oro,  limonada!  "  mingle  with 
those  of  shell  and  bead-sellers,  of  flower-girls  and  fishermen, 
206 


RIVA  DEI   SCHIAVONI         207 

praising  their  wares,  of  gondoliers,  and  facchini  seeking 
custom  or  quarrelling  among  themselves,  and  cursing  each 
other's  remotest  descendants  in  the  most  voluble  language. 
Towards  mid-day  a  change  comes  over  the  scene.  There 
is  a  lull  in  the  busy  traffic,  a  pause  in  the  movement  of  the 
crowd.  The  cries  become  fewer  and  feebler,  until  by  de- 
grees they  die  out  entirely,  and  slumber  creeps  over  the 
noisiest  and  most  pertinacious  vendors  of  anise-water  and 
macaroni.  Those  two  gondoliers,  who  half-an-hour  ago 
were  calling  heaven  and  earth  to  witness  the  eternal  hatred 
which  they  vowed  against  each  other,  are  peacefully  sleep- 
ing side  by  side,  on  the  steps  of  the  quay,  in  the  most  con- 
fiding trustfulness.  Even  the  little,  sharp-faced  fruit-seller, 
who  has  been  crying  the  ambrosial  sweetness  of  his  peaches, 
exactly  under  your  window,  until  you  wonder  he  has  any 
voice  left,  is  silent  now,  and  leans  against  his  stall,  nodding 
his  head  over  the  piles  of  ripe  fruit  before  him.  Sleep 
has  overtaken  all  alike,  and  the  only  voices  to  be  heard 
proceed  from  parties  of  indefatigable  English,  who,  in- 
tent on  pursuing  their  daily  round  of  sight-seeing  regard- 
less of  the  sun's  meridian  power,  come  in  search  of  a  gon- 
dolier. As  the  hours  go  by,  and  the  heat  of  the  day  passes, 
another  change  comes  over  the  Riva.  A  steamer  arrives, 
there  is  a  rush  of  people  to  the  quay,  the  sleeping  mummies 
on  the  pavement  lift  their  heads  and  rise  slowly  to  their 
feet.  One  by  one  the  sellers  return,  the  cries  begin  exactly 
as  before,  only  a  trifle  shriller  and  more  persistent  than 
before.  The  plot  thickens  as  the  afternoon  wears  away, 


208  VENICE 

and  a  fresh  breeze  springs  up  from  the  lagoon.  Guitar- 
players  and  barrel-organs  wake  the  echoes,  marionettes  and 
puppet-shows  attract  small  crowds  of  children  and  idlers, 
boatmen  and  beggars  return  to  the  charge  with  the  vigour 
of  giants  refreshed  with  wine,  the  bargaining  and  the 
wrangling  and  shouting  become  louder  and  more  bewilder- 
ing than  ever. 

And  now  it  is  the  hour  of  promenade,  when  the  beauty 
and  fashion  of  Venice  take  the  air,  and  you  may  see  ladies 
wrapped  in  lace  mantillas  go  by,  wearing  gold  or  pearl 
pins  in  their  hair  and  waving  large  fans  to  and  fro  as  they 
walk,  followed  by  groups  of  friends  and  admirers.  They 
are  dark-eyed  beauties  for  the  most  part,  but  occasionally 
you  may  see  a  maiden  with  the  golden  hair  which  Tintoret 
and  Paris  Bordone  loved  to  paint,  and  you  may  be  sure 
la  biondina  will  excite  more  than  one  exclamation  of  frank 
admiration  from  the  passers-by.  Often  the  handsomest  faces 
are  those  of  the  women  of  the  humbler  classes,  who  also 
come  out  to  take  the  air  on  the  Riva  at  this  hour.  Some 
of  them  wear  large  straw  hats,  and  others  heavy  gold  chains 
and  earrings,  and  often  silver  arrows  stuck  through  their 
classically  braided  tresses,  while  all,  whatever  their  dress 
may  be,  have  a  gaily-coloured  handkerchief  on  their 
shoulders. 

The  scene  on  the  sea  is  as  lively  as  that  on  shore.  The 
lagoon  swarms  with  gondolas  and  barcas,  and  the  bright 
colours  of  the  striped  awnings  and  crimson  or  blue  and  white 
scarves  of  the  gondoliers  enliven  the  blackness  of  the  boats 


RIVA  DEI  SCHIAVONI  209 

as  they  go  flitting  by  across  the  waters.  Now  and  then 
the  note  of  a  guitar  is  heard  from  a  gondola,  and  if  it  be 
a  festa  a  boatful  of  men  and  boys  are  sure  to  be  there, 
singing  in  their  rich  musical  voices  the  refrain  of  the  favour- 
ite chorus: 

"  Venezia,  gemma  triatica,  sposa  del  mar" 

the  one  perpetual  strain  of  which  Venetian  boatmen  never 
seem  to  tire. 

So  it  all  goes  on  for  hours,  the  music  and  the  voices  and 
the  movement  of  feet  passing  up  and  down,  while  the  west- 
ern sun  is  pouring  its  glory  over  the  shore,  and  Ducal  Pal- 
ace and  lagoon  and  the  tall  campanile  of  S.  Giorgio  yonder 
are  steeped  in  one  rosy  glow. 

Long  after  it  has  dropped  into  the  sea,  and  the  stars  have 
come  out  in  the  sky,  they  will  be  promenading,  talking,  and 
laughing  still,  and  the  voices  will  wax  merrier,  and  the 
laughter  more  joyous  as  the  pleasant  twilight  hour  deepens. 
But  if  you  have  had  enough  of  the  noise  and  of  the  daz- 
zling brightness  which  does  at  last  begin  to  weary  your 
eyes  in  Venice,  you  have  only  to  turn  a  few  steps  aside 
from  the  gay  Riva,  and  stand  on  the  lonely  bridge  which 
joins  it  to  the  Piazzetta.  It  is  called  the  Ponte  della  Paglia, 
and  crosses  the  narrow  channel  which  flows  between  the 
Palace  and  the  Prisons.  There  it  is  silent  enough,  and  no 
one  will  disturb  you  as  you  look  down  at  the  dark  waters 
lapping  the  massive  cornices  and  iron  bound  windows  of 
the  majestic  Rio  fagade.  Not  a  sound  breaks  the  stillness, 


2IO 


VENICE 


except  it  be  the  hum  of  distant  voices  and  music  on  the 
Riva,  or  the  splash  of  an  oar  as  a  solitary  gondola  comes 
stealing  along  by  the  blackened  walls,  and  under  the  tomb- 
like  structure  of  the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  hanging  in  mid-air  as  if 
it  had  been  flung  aloft  on  purpose  to  catch  the  moonbeams 
which  go  straying  into  the  waters  below.  It  is  to  these  sud- 
den contrasts  that  we  owe  half  the  charm  of  Venice. 


BY  SIDE  CANALS 

LINDA   V1LLARI 

IN  a  forlorn  corner  of  Venice,  not  far  from  the  Ma- 
donna dell'  Orto,  where  Cima  da  Conegliano's  great 
picture  is  enshrined,  we  come  to  the  grass-grown 
Campo  St.  Avis,  with  its  blistered  garden  walls  and  cluster 
of  crumbling  buildings.  There  is  plenty  of  time  to  look 
about  us  before  the  bottle-nosed  custodian  comes  shuffling 
over  the  bridge  with  the  keys  of  the  little-frequented  church. 
We  have  come  to  seek  the  earliest  productions  of  Carpaccio, 
and  here  they  are  on  the  wall  of  the  nave,  eight  in  all  and 
mere  daubs,  although  the  promising  daubs  of  a  gifted  twelve- 
year-old  boy.  They  are  scenes  from  the  Old  Testament — 
Job  and  his  Comforters;  Solomon  and  the  Queen  of  Sheba; 
Tobit  and  the  Angel;  Moses  and  the  Tables  of  the  Law; 
the  Golden  Calf ;  Joshua  before  the  Walls  of  Jericho;  Jo- 
seph's Brethren  Imploring  Forgiveness;  Jacob  and  Rachel 
at  the  Well 

These  early  efforts  of  the  future  illustrator  of  the  legends 
of  St.  George,  St.  Ursula,  St.  Jerome,  etc.,  have  little  historic 
worth,  but  much  historic  interest,  since  all  crudity  and  stiff- 
ness notwithstanding,  they  show  the  budding  dramatic  power 
and  keen  observation  of  the  future  master.  And  they  are 
the  only  records  of  his  youth,  for  few  details  are  known  of 
Carpaccio's  life.  Even  the  date  of  his  birth  is  uncertain, 


212  VENICE 

but  may  be  placed  towards  the  middle  of  the  Fifteenth 
Century,  as  he  was  an  aged  man  at  the  time  of  his  death 
in  1524.  The  first  of  his  great  works  is  dated  1490,  the 
last  1522.  It  is  a  disputed  point  whether  his  name  was 
Scarpaccia  or  Carpaccio,  a  disputed  point  whether  he  was  a 
native  of  Venice  or  Istria;  but  recent  research  has  almost 
decided  this  question  in  favour  of  the  latter  place.  The 
St.  Avis  panels  bear  the  painter's  usual  signature.  In 
the  quaint  representation  of  Jacob's  meeting  with  Rachel, 
we  at  once  notice  the  horse  stooping  to  feed.  The  action 
is  very  truthful,  and  the  forelegs  have  the  defect — dispro- 
portionate length — common  to  all  Carpaccio's  horses.  But, 
as  in  his  after  works,  the  story  is  capitally  told,  the  central 
idea  seized,  although  the  brush  is  feebly  handled,  and  the 
drawing  that  of  a  child. 

This  poverty-stricken  church  must  once  have  seen  better 
days,  for  it  possesses  several  excellent  works  of  art.  There  is  a 
fresco  by  Bonifazio — The  Last  Supper — almost  identical  in 
composition  with  the  oil-painting  by  the  same  master  in  the 
Florence  Academy.  The  Judas  is  specially  remarkable  as 
a  study  in  red  and  brown.  Here,  too,  are  a  couple  of  Tie- 
polo's  chefs  d'ceuvre:  the  Scourging  in  the  Temple,  and 
Christ  Sinking  Under  the  Cross.  They  are  noble  paintings 
both  for  colour  and  design,  and  painted  in  the  master's 
most  serious  mood.  No  frolicsome  angels  mar  the  solemnity 
of  the  themes.  Nevertheless,  like  all  this  master's  works, 
they  bear  a  prophetic  kinship  with  those  of  the  French 
school  of  thirty  years  back.  They  might  have  strayed  from 


SANUDO   VANAXEL  CANAL 


BY  SIDE  CANALS  213 

the  walls  of  the  Luxembourg  to   this  decaying  Venetian 
church. 

The  last  of  the  Venetian  colourists  is  unfortunate  in  his 
surroundings,  for  some  of  his  best  productions  are  hidden  in 
the  Palazzo  Labia,  in  the  Canareggio  quarter,  near  the  rail' 
way  station,  and  are  seldom  discovered  by  strangers.  The 
palace  stands  sideways  to  the  canal,  divided  from  it  by  a 
stretch  of  pavement.  It  fronts  an  unsavoury  Fondamento, 
whence,  after  ringing  at  a  blistered  door,  you  pass  into  a 
spacious  entrance  hall,  foul  with  odours  unmentionable  and 
strewed  with  flakes  of  plaster  dropped  from  the  cracked  and 
bulging  vault  above.  A  grandiose  staircase  faces  the  mouldy 
courtyard  in  the  centre  of  the  block.  Ascending  its  grimy 
steps,  you  are  met  by  a  frowzy  portress,  fit  guardian  of  decay, 
whose  slip-shod  feet  lead  the  way  into  a  lofty  saloon  with 
wide  cracks  in  the  walls  and  depressions  in  the  floor  corre- 
sponding with  the  unsightly  bulges  seen  from  below.  Here 
are  Tiepolo's  frescoes  of  the  loves  of  Antony  and  Cleo- 
patra, and  the  Allegory  of  Fortune.  The  visitor's  first  im- 
pression is  one  of  blank  disappointment,  for  the  story  of  the 
Egyptian  queen  is  coarselv  treated,  though  vigorous  in  de- 
sign ;  and  this  buxom,  blowzy  Cleopatra,  with  ruff  and  stom- 
acher and  powdered  toupee,  so  ostentatiously  melting  her 
pearl  before  the  enamoured  eyes  of  her  Roman  General,  is,  to 
say  the  least,  a  droll  anachronism.  But  there  is  a  charming 
group  of  pipers  and  trumpeters  in  the  background,  delicate, 
vaporous  figures,  somewhat  after  the  manner  of  Hamon. 
On  the  opposite  wall  is  seen  the  arrival  of  Mark  Antony, 


214  VENICE 

and  on  the  ceiling  the  Allegory  of  Fortune,  a  truly  excellent 
work.  It  is  sad  that  treasures  like  these  should  be  left  to 
perish  amid  all  this  dust  and  decay!  A  school  of  mosaic 
workers  occupies  the  front  rooms,  and  you  have  to  pick  your 
way  among  heaps  of  glass  cubes,  pots  of  cement,  and  a  con- 
fusion of  benches,  tables  and  boys,  to  obtain  a  view  of  the 
remaining  pictures.  The  rest  of  the  building  is  let  off  to 
tenants  of  the  poorest  class  who  air  their  rags  on  the  sculp- 
tured window-sills  and  balconies. 

Sic  transit  gloria  mundi!  About  a  century  ago  this  mas- 
sive Renaissance  palace  was  the  meeting-place  of  the  fash- 
ionable world,  for  the  Labia  exercised  a  princely  hospitality, 
and  had  a  private  theatre,  where  many  operas  were  acted  by 
marionettes  and  sung  by  good  artists  behind  the  scenes. 

On  the  same  day,  we  gained  admittance  to  the  Palazzo 
Morosini,  at  Santo  Stefano,  one  of  the  best  preserved  relics 
of  olden  Venice.  It  still  belongs  to  the  Morosini,  and  the 
present  representative  of  the  family  allows  it  to  be  seen  by 
special  appointment.  Landing  at  the  water-door  in  a  dark 
and  narrow  canal,  you  are  received  by  ancient  serving-men 
with  shrunken  faces  and  loosely  hanging  coats,  and  ushered 
straight  into  the  Seventeenth  Century.  The  chilly  entrance 
hall  is  adorned  with  quaint  oil  sketches  of  the  thirty-seven 
strongholds  captured  by  Francesco  Morosini  in  the  Morea. 
The  huge  lanterns  of  his  war-galley  project  from  the  end 
wall.  There  are  full-length  portraits  of  the  conquering 
Doge  and  of  many  illustrious  ancestors.  The  Maggiordomo 
appears  and  gravely  leads  you  up-stairs  into  a  long  suite  of 


BY  SIDE  CANALS  215 

saloons  with  gorgeous  uncomfortable  furniture,  a  large  col- 
lection of  pictures — good,  bad  and  indifferent — quantities 
of  rare  old  china  of  Eastern  and  native  fabric,  and  innumer- 
able relics  of  the  hero  of  the  house,  Doge  Francesco,  sur- 
named  the  "  Peloponesiaco."  There  is  his  bust  in  bronze, 
with  memorials  of  his  prowess;  and  the  resolute  features  are 
those  of  a  leader  of  men.  The  one  thing  lacking  to  this 
typical  Venetian  dwelling  is  an  outlook  on  to  the  Grand 
Canal.  Nearly  all  the  windows  open  upon  the  "  Calle 
Stretta,"  or  into  mildewed  courts ;  and  the  only  sunny  corner, 
at  the  angle  of  Piazza,  Santo  Stefano,  is  devoted  to  the  ar- 
moury, filled  with  spoils  of  victory  over  the  Turks.  A 
forest  of  infidel  banners  and  flags  droop  from  the  walls  in 
heavy  silken  folds,  amid  a  store  of  Pasha's  tails,  shields,  tro- 
phies of  arms  and  armour,  guns  and  mortars,  statues,  busts 
and  bas-reliefs.  This  fortunate  general  captured  no  less 
than  1,360  pieces  of  artillery,  and  evidently  looted  on  a  vast 
scale,  inasmuch  as  the  lion's  share  of  his  gains  must  have 
gone  to  the  State.  The  sun  streamed  into  this  picturesque 
hall  and  through  its  wide  casements.  We  looked  on 
to  the  flower-filled  terrace  of  Countess  Morosini's  private 
rooms. 

The  gem  of  the  picture  gallery  is  Titian's  portrait  of  Doge 
Grimiani:  a  marvellous  painting  of  an  astute  old  face,  with 
piercing  narrow  eyes  and  seamed  with  countless  wrinkles. 
His  union  with  Morosina  Morosini  can  hardly  have  been  a 
love  match,  on  the  lady's  part  at  all  events.  Beside  this 
masterpiece  hangs  a  good  Sir  Peter  Lely,  representing  a 


2i6  VENICE 

bouncing  blonde  with  frank  blue  eyes,  supposed  to  be  the 
portrait  of  Christina  of  Sweden. 

The  collection  naturally  includes  many  scenes  of  Venetian 
life  by  the  prolific  Longhi ;  they  are  very  inferior  to  those  in 
the  possession  of  Mr.  Rawdon  Browne,  but  there  are  some 
female  heads  in  pastel  by  the  same  master  which  are  speci- 
mens of  his  best  work. 

This  home  of  the  Morosini  Is  almost  the  only  notable 
Venetian  palace  still  owned  by  the  family  for  whom  it  was 
built,  and  no  other  has  retained  so  rich  a  collection  of  art- 
treasures  and  relics.  But  even  at  burning  mid-day  it  was 
cold — cold  as  the  grave.  Surely,  only  disembodied  spirits 
could  take  their  ease  in  those  stiff  and  chilly  saloons!  We 
could  imagine  the  long-deceased  Doge  and  a  select  company 
of  family  ghosts  gravely  stalking  through  them  by  night,  and 
trying  to  warm  themselves  by  sipping  hot  coffee — for  which 
the  Doge  had  acquired  a  taste  in  the  East — from  the  dainty 
cups  so  primly  ranged  on  shelves  during  the  day.  That  there 
are  ghosts  in  Venice  is  known  to  everyone.  Is  not  that  fine 
grim-fronted  palace  at  the  turn  of  the  canal,  Palazzo  Con- 
tanni  delle  Figure,  perpetually  changing  hands,  because  no 
tenant  can  long  endure  its  nighty  horrors?  The  present 
owner  has  stripped  it  of  its  furniture  in  the  hope  of  getting 
rid  of  the  ghosts,  but  no  one  takes  it,  and  its  supernatural 
occupants  now  have  it  all  to  themselves. 


SOME  CHURCHES  OF  VENICE 

HENRY   PERL 

THE  localities  adjacent  to  the  Rial  to  are  those  in 
which  the  larger  mercantile  affairs  of  the  city  are 
carried  on.     But  although  it  is  so  especially  the 
resort  of  business  men,  it  must  be  understood  that  the  entire 
neighbourhood  is  not  lacking  in  objects  of  rich  architectural 
interest.     One  of  the  most  remarkable  of  these  is  the  Church 
of  the  Madonna  dei  Miracoli,  to  which  we  may  now  direct 
our  steps.     In  itself  it  is  so  complete,  that,  with  respect  to  its 
purity  alike  of  form  and  style,  it  may  almost  be  said  to  stand 
alone. 

The  church  dates  from  the  early  Renaissance,  and  shows  at 
the  same  time  some  slight  tendency  towards  the  mediaeval 
Byzantine  style.  The  name  of  the  original  architect  is  un- 
certain, but  the  design  was  no  doubt  carried  out  faithfully 
in  1481  under  the  supervision  of  Pietro  Lombardo.  Many 
of  the  paintings  in  the  interior  are  of  the  highest  value,  but 
besides  these  the  elaborate  perforations  and  exquisite  finish  of 
the  stonework  demand  a  careful  inspection.  From  an  artistic 
point  of  view,  the  Church  "  dei  Miracoli  "  must  be  reckoned 
amongst  the  most  striking  of  the  architectural  works  that  ever 
were  accomplished  by  the  genius  and  energy  of  the  Lom- 
bard! family.  Its  charm  lies  primarily  in  the  perfect  har- 
mony of  its  proportion,  and  this  has  been  more  completely 
217 


2i  8  VENICE 

revealed  since  the  cultivated  taste  of  modern  days  has  insisted 
on  the  removal  of  the  various  altars,  statues  and  other  erec- 
tions, which  had  so  encroached  upon  the  area  as  to  mar  the 
purity  of  the  proper  outlines.  As  it  is  seen  at  present,  it  is 
the  pearl  of  Venetian  churches. 

Only  a  short  distance  from  the  Church  dei  Miracoli,  we 
shall  come  upon  another  architectural  gem  of  the  days  of  old. 
This  is  the  pointed  arabesque  archway  that  forms  the  en- 
trance to  what  is  known  as  the  "  Corte  della  Monache."  It  is 
a  happy  combination  of  the  Moorish  with  the  Gothic  style. 

Almost  close  by  this  is  the  "  Campo  Tiziano,"  in  which  is 
situated  the  house  which  Titian  occupied  from  1531  to  1576. 
Going  on  straight  ahead — or,  as  the  Venetians  say,  sempre 
dritto — we  soon  arrive  at  the  Piazza  San  Giovanni  e  Paolo, 
and  there  we  find  ourselves  in  full  view  both  of  the  church 
of  the  same  name  and  of  the  Municipal  Hospital.  Opposite 
is  an  equestrian  statue  to  the  memory  of  Bartolomeo  Colleoni, 
who  was  a  general  of  high  renown  in  the  time  of  the  Re- 
public. Adjoining  the  Church  of  San  Giovanni  e  Paolo  is 
the  Scuola  di  San  Marco,  remarkable  for  the  singular  reliefs 
in  perspective  of  two  lions  which  adorn  it.  This  is  now  a 
hospital. 

Opposite  San  Giovanni  e  Paolo  the  road  leads  towards 
San  Lorenzo,  whence  we  proceed  towards  the  Greek 
Church  and  the  treasury  of  San  Giorzio  dei  Greci.  This  is 
no  doubt  one  of  the  most  curious  and  striking  quarters  of 
Venice,  being  in  a  large  degree  made  up  of  palatial  residences, 
often  beautiful  in  themselves,  but  almost  all  deserted. 


CHURCH    OF  S.    ZACCARIA 


SOME  CHURCHES  OF  VENICE    219 

The  Church  of  San  Lorenzo  was  originally  a  convent 
belonging  to  the  Benedictine  Order.  Its  history  dates  from 
about  1000  A.  D.,  but  the  fabric  itself  was  not  built  till 
J595>  when  it  was  proceeded  with  under  very  favourable 
auspices.  The  singular  circumstance  is  recorded  that,  at 
the  very  commencement  of  the  undertaking,  the  workmen 
who  were  digging  out  the  excavations  for  the  foundation 
came  upon  two  of  the  huge  jars  known  as  "  zare,"  and  which 
are  still  in  use  for  holding  water.  These  were  found  to  be 
full  up  to  the  brim  of  gold  coins.  There  was  no  doubt  as  to 
how  the  treasure  had  come  there.  The  money  had  been  the 
property  of  Angela  Michiel,  an  abbess  of  the  convent,  who 
had  thus  buried  her  wealth  for  security  after  the  murder  of 
her  brother,  the  Doge  Vicenzo  Michiel. 

As  we  are  strolling  about,  we  shall  be  sure  to  find  ourselves 
before  long  opposite  the  Church  of  San  Giorgio  dei  Greci, 
and  we  may  well  pause  for  a  while  to  look  at  it.  It  was  in 
1498  that  the  Greeks  resident  in  Venice,  some  merchants, 
others  fugitives  from  the  Turks,  formed  a  resolution  to  erect 
a  Greek  church,  and  obtained  the  requisite  permission  to 
carry  out  the  design. 

One  of  the  other  passages  close  by  is  the  Calle  San  An- 
tonino,  and  leads  to  the  church  after  which  it  is  named.  This 
church  was  founded  in  the  Ninth  Century;  but  the  ancient 
structure  was  removed  and  the  edifice  rebuilt  in  the  Six- 
teenth Century,  so  that  it  now  presents  comparatively  little 
of  interest. 

On  the  right,  the  Fondamenta  leads  to  another  church — 


220  VENICE 

that  of  San  Giorgio  degli  Schiavoni — where,  besides  a  bas- 
relief  by  Pietro  da  Salo  bearing  date  1551,  there  is  preserved 
the  noteworthy  series,  by  Carpaccio,  of  scenes  illustrating  the 
lives  of  the  saintly  patrons  of  Dalmatia  and  Albania.  We 
need  only  retrace  our  steps  for  a  short  way,  leaving  this  little 
church  of  San  Antonino,  and  we  shall  come  to  the  Campo 
della  Bragola,  and  nearly  opposite  to  us  we  shall  see  the 
Palazzo  Badoer,  bearing  one  of  the  oldest  names  in  Venetian 
history.  The  building  is  Fourteenth  Century  pointed  work, 
and  the  walls  still  retain  traces  of  fresco-paintings.  The 
Campo  altogether  may  be  justly  regarded  as  a  type  of 
mediaeval  Venice.  It  contains  a  church  dedicated  to  San 
Giovanni  in  Bragola. 

Leading  from  the  Zattere  are  several  ways  into  the  labyrin- 
thine passages  of  Venice.  We  decide  to  turn  into  the  Calle 
del  Vento,  and  so  reach  the  Fondamenta  San  Sebastiano,  in 
which  of  course,  we  also  find  the  Church  of  San  Sebastiano. 
It  was  here  the  Paolo  Veronese  was  buried,  and  the  church 
can  boast  of  possessing  a  goodly  number  of  his  most  valued 
paintings.  From  the  twenty-seventh  to  the  thirty-first  year 
of  his  age  he  was  employed  by  the  prior  to  adorn  the  walls 
of  the  building.  It  was  very  probably  due  to  this  commis- 
sion that  Paolo  Caliario  came  from  Verona  to  Venice,  where 
he  depicted  the  city  in  its  glory  and  gained  for  himself  a 
world-wide  reputation.  Seen  from  the  outside  the  church  is 
quite  unpretentious,  but  some  of  the  pictures  that  embellish 
the  interior  are  masterpieces  by  Veronese.  Amongst  them 
are  the  Martyrdom  of  S.  Sebastian  and  the  Martyrdom  of 


SOME  CHURCHES  OF  VENICE    221 

SS.  Mark  and  Marcellinus.  One  of  the  altar-pieces  is  a 
powerful  picture  by  Titian,  and  a  circumstance  that  gives  it 
an  exceptional  interest  is  that  it  was  painted  when  the  artist 
\vas  in  his  eighty-sixth  year.  The  mortal  remains  of  Paolo 
Veronese  lie  just  below  a  bust  of  him,  and  a  Latin  inscription 
certifies  the  fact. 

From  this  church  we  pass  through  a  little  piazza  that  has 
almost  a  rural  character,  and  brings  us  to  the  Church  of  San 
Angelo  Raffaelle,  which  is  another  monument  of  art.  The 
sculptured  fountain  in  the  middle  of  the  Campo  San  Raf- 
faelle is  by  Marco  Arian,  of  the  date  of  1349,  and  is  one  of 
the  only  two  authenticated  works  by  him  in  Venice.  Hardly 
any  church  enjoys  a  greater  popularity  than  San  Angelo,  and 
the  piazza  is  from  time  to  time  bright  with  the  festival  pro- 
cessions crossing  it.  The  ceremonial  observed  with  the 
keenest  zest,  and  therefore  the  most  attractive,  takes  place  on 
St.  John  the  Baptist's  Day,  which  falls  on  the  24th  of  June. 
A  considerable  number  of  little  children  from  two  to  four 
years  of  age  are  dressed  up  in  lamb-skins,  lavishly  adorned 
with  flowers,  and  each  provided  with  a  candle  that,  like 
themselves,  is  gay  with  blossoms  and  coloured  ribbons.  Many 
of  them  wear  dazzling  crowns  upon  their  heads,  and  per- 
sonate the  infant  Baptist.  In  this  way  they  form  a  leading 
feature  in  the  procession,  which  is  certainly  very  imposing. 

The  neighbourhood  round  San  Raffaelle  and  near  S. 
Nicolo  dei  Mendicanti  is  one  of  the  poorest,  and  at  the  same 
time  one  of  the  most  characteristic,  in  Venice.  The  little 
church  of  S.  Nicolo  has  not  been  without  its  significance  in 


222  VENICE 

the  history  of  the  lagoons,  inasmuch  as  it  gave  the  name  of  the 
"  Nicolotti  "  to  the  residents  within  its  parochial  bounds, 
the  sworn  foes  of  the  Castellani,  and  the  eager  partakers  in 
the  Herculean  sports  there  described. 

At  this  end  of  the  city  more  than  anywhere  else  we  realise 
that  Venice  is  actually  an  island  traversed  by  navigable  canals 
which  the  great  and  mighty  have  at  intervals  adorned  with 
buildings,  most  of  them  ranking  as  works  of  art. 

Here,  as  so  often  happens,  we  find  as  we  go  along  either 
from  San  Sebastiano,  or  San  Raffaelle  that  the  monotony  of 
the  long  and  cleanly-kept  Fondamenta  is  relieved  by  some 
small  piazza..  On  one  of  these  stands  a  church  of  high 
repute  known  as  "  I  Carmini,"  whence  both  the  Campo  and 
the  adjacent  bridge  have  derived  their  name.  The  popular- 
ity that  the  church  enjoys  is  exceptionally  great,  and  is  to  be 
largely,  if  not  entirely,  attributed  to  the  circumstance  of  its 
being  dedicated  to  the  Madonna  del  Carmelo,  who  is  gen- 
erally supposed  to  be  identical  with  the  Madonna  di  Loretto. 
The  yearly  festival  of  the  Madonna,  which  is  held  in  the 
month  of  July,  is  observed  with  especial  honour,  and  is  an 
occasion  when  the  Patriarch  of  Venice,  generally  attends  and 
himself  celebrates  High  Mass. 

From  the  Marittima  we  cross  a  bridge  and  come  upon  a 
pretty  piazza  that  is  almost  Dutch  in  its  aspect;  this  is  the 
Campo  Sant'  Andrea,  the  church  having  the  same  name  and 
facing  the  Canal  di  Marittima.  It  is  only  on  Sundays  and 
festivals  that  this  church  is  open  for  service,  and  it  is  at- 
tended almost  exclusively  by  sailors. 


SOME  CHURCHES  OF  VENICE    223 

The  Frari  Church  is  the  Pantheon  of  Venice.  For  even 
the  most  cursory  and  superficial  inspection  of  it  a  quiet  un- 
interrupted hour  is  required.  Not  only  does  it  contain  the 
monuments  of  many  eminent  men  who  are  buried  here,  but 
there  are  numerous  portraits  and  pictures  that  must  detain 
attention.  First  we  must  name  the  Mausoleums  of  Pesaro 
and  Titian,  and  what,  perhaps,  in  an  artistic  sense  will  be 
accounted  more  important  still,  the  Monument  to  Canova. 


ALL  SOULS'  DAY 

HORATIO    F.    BROWN 

i  HE  Italians  keep  their  Lemuria  or  festival  for  the 
dead,  not  in  May,  as  their  Roman  ancestors  did, 
but  in  November.  The  2nd  of  November,  All 
Souls'  Day,  and  its  octave  are  more  generally  observed  than 
any  other  of  the  minor  holy  days  in  the  Roman  calendar. 
No  festival  could  so  unite  all  classes  of  people  as  this,  on 
which  each  family  pays  the  tribute  of  memory  to  its  lost  ones, 
and  acknowledges  the  power  of  that  great  Democrat,  Death. 
Every  day  throughout  the  octave,  the  churches  of  Venice 
recite  a  mass  for  the  souls  of  those  who  are  gone  and  implore 
for  them  the  intercession  of  All  Saints,  whose  festival  comes 
immediately  before  the  day  of  the  dead.  In  the  evening 
another  service  is  held,  a  little  after  sundown.  There  is  a 
sermon;  and  then  begins  the  lighting  of  candles  all  through 
the  church,  before  each  altar  and  round  the  catafalque  in  the 
centre.  It  is  upon  the  vigil  of  All  Souls,  the  "  notte  del 
Morti  "  as  it  is  called,  and  at  the  church  of  the  Gesuati,  upon 
the  Zattere,  that  the  greatest  illumination  takes  place.  The 
Gesuati  is  that  late  Palladian  church,  built  of  Istrian  stone, 
almost  opposite  the  nobler  fagade  of  the  Redentore,  and 
more  formally  known  as  Santa  Maria  del  Rosario.  The 
church  is  called  the  Gesuati  because  hard  by — but  long  before 
the  foundation  of  this  present  building,  which  dates  from  the 


CHURCH   OF   IL  SANTISSIMO   REDENTORE 


ALL  SOULS'  DAY  225 

last  century  only — the  company  of  the  Blessed  John  Colom- 
bini,  which  was  called  the  Gesuati,  first  established  itself  in 
the  year  1392.  Among  the  other  pious  duties  of  the  brother- 
hood was  that  of  supplying  and  carrying  the  torches  at 
funerals,  and  hence  it  comes  that  the  Gesuati  makes  this  dis- 
play of  light  every  2nd  of  November.  The  order  of  the 
Blessed  John  was  suppressed  in  the  year  1668;  but  the 
Dominicans  who  succeeded  the  Gesuati  in  the  possession  of 
their  monastery  and  church  continue  the  custom  of  the 
candles. 

Outside,  over  the  main  door  of  the  church  is  a  large  black- 
board, and,  in  white  letters,  an  invitation  to  all  good 
Christians  to  pray  for  the  souls  of  the  departed.  Round  this 
table  hangs  a  wreath  of  laurel  leaves,  twined  on  a  black  and 
white  ribbon.  Every  other  door  of  the  church  has  a  similar 
garland  above  it.  The  sun  is  setting  in  a  cold  and  cloudless 
sky,  serene  and  almost  hard.  In  the  zenith  the  colour  is 
deep  blue,  but  towards  the  west  a  thin  film  of  gold  is  spread 
where  the  sun  is  sinking.  The  wind  comes  fine  and  search- 
ing, as  it  so  often  does  on  an  autumn  evening.  The  broad 
and  rippled  waters  of  the  Giudecca  Canal  seem  as  hard  as  the 
sky  they  reflect. 

Inside  the  church,  through  the  open  door  where  the  women 
troop,  pulling  their  shawls  up  over  their  heads  as  they  enter, 
all  is  dark  and  gloomy,  every  column,  pilaster,  and  arch- 
itrave draped  in  black  cloth  with  silver  fringes;  and  wreaths 
of  laurel  are  twined  round  each  pillar's  base.  The  high 
altar  is  hidden  by  a  towrering  cenotaph,  raised  in  the  middle 


226  VENICE 

of  the  nave ;  against  its  blackness  the  thin  white  stripes  of  the 
tapers  that  surround  it  stand  out  clear.  The  people,  chiefly 
women  and  boys,  scuffle  and  whisper  subduedly  as  they  kneel 
in  rows.  The  black-walled,  black-roofed  church  seems  to 
enclose  and  compress  them  as  if  in  some  vast  and  lugubrious 
tomb;  and  their  mutterings  sound  like  the  gibbering  of 
ghosts.  The  sermon  begins;  a  voice  alone,  full  of  inflexion, 
passion,  forcible  cadences,  speaking  out  of  the  darkness. 
Though  the  preacher  is  invisible,  the  mind  unconsciously  and 
perforce  pictures  the  action  that  must  accompany  this  strong 
Italian  rhetoric.  The  voice  holds  the  church ;  and  there  is 
silence  in  the  congregation  except  for  the  dull  thud  of  the 
padded  doors  as  some  new-comers  arrive.  The  sermon  is 
not  long;  only  a  few  rapid  passages,  and  then  comes  the 
close.  The  shuffling  and  whispering  are  resumed ;  and  the 
sacristans  begin  to  light  the  candles.  Through  the  darkness 
the  little  yellow  tips  of  fire  move  noiselessly,  touching  the  tall 
wax  tapers  before  each  altar,  and  down  the  nave,  and  round 
the  cenotaph  in  the  centre.  Presently  the  church  is  faintly 
illuminated  by  these  warm  yellow  stars,  that  waver  to  and 
fro  in  the  gloom,  but  do  not  overcome  it.  There  is  a  short 
hush  of  silent  prayer ;  then  the  congregation  rises  and  shuffles 
out  down  the  steps  of  the  church  on  to  the  broad  pavement  of 
the  Zattere. 

The  sun  has  set,  the  wind  died  away ;  the  air  is  mild  and 
clear;  the  sky  in  the  west  is  mellowed  to  a  wonderful  enamel 
of  molten  blue  and  green  and  daffodil;  and  no  stars  are 
shining  yet.  The  crowd  disappears  rapidly;  the  boys  rush 


ALL  SOULS'  DAY  227 

off  with  shouts ;  the  men  follow  in  twos  or  threes  with  long 
swinging  step  and  conscious  manly  movement;  the  women 
linked  arm  in  arm,  go  clattering  down  the  narrow  street  on 
their  noisy  pattens. 

On  All  Souls'  Day  it  is  the  custom  to  visit  the  graves  of 
relations  and  friends  in  that  grim  cemetery  of  San  Michele, 
whose  high  brick  wall  you  pass  on  the  way  to  Murano  or 
Torcello.  The  church  itself  is  a  lovely  specimen  of  Lom- 
bardi  work  with  delicate  bas-reliefs  in  Istrian  stone  upon  the 
little  pentagonal  Cappella  Emiliana  adjoining  it.  But  there 
is  something  terrible  and  sinister  in  the  cemetery  itself,  where 
the  dead  lie  buried  in  the  ooze  of  the  lagoon-island.  On  this 
day  the  Venetians  carry  wreaths  to  lay  on  the  graves.  The 
wealthier  have  garlands  made  of  real  flowers,  but,  for  the 
most  part,  these  wreaths  are  twined  out  of  Venetian  beads — 
red  and  blue,  Madonna's  colours,  for  the  women;  or  black 
and  white  for  the  men,  who  have  no  universal  patron  in  the 
heavens. 

There  is  one  old  custom  connected  with  this  festival  of  the 
dead  which  still  survives  in  Venice,  and  recalls  a  Latin,  or 
even  an  earlier  superstition.  The  pious  man  in  Ovid's 
"  Fasti "  rises  at  midnight  to  fling  black  beans  behind  his 
shoulder.  Nine  times  he  flung  his  beans,  and  then  the  ghost 
was  laid.  The  Venetian  does  not  fling  away  his  beans;  he 
eats  them.  In  Venice  this  custom  of  eating  beans  through 
the  octave  of  All  Souls'  is  extremely  ancient.  The  monks  of 
every  cloister  in  the  city  used  to  make  a  gratuitous  distribution 
of  beans  on  All  Souls'  Day  to  any  of  the  poor  who  chose  to 


228  VENICE 

come  for  them.  A  huge  caldron  was  placed  in  the  middle  of 
the  courtyard  and  the  food  ladled  out  to  the  crowd.  The 
gondoliers  did  not  come  with  the  rest,  but  had  their  portion 
sent  down  to  them  at  their  ferries.  This  grace  was  granted 
to  them  in  consideration  of  the  fact  that  all  the  year  round 
they  rowed  the  brothers  across  the  canals  for  nothing.  In- 
deed, though  the  custom  is  almost  extinct,  they  still  do  so; 
and  you  may  sometimes  see  a  brown-cowled  friar  crossing  a 
ferry  with  no  other  payment  than  a  pinch  of  snuff  or  a  bene- 
diction. As  the  Venetians  grew  more  wealthy  true  beans 
became  distasteful  to  the  palates  of  the  luxurious,  who  were 
yet  unwilling  to  break  through  the  custom  of  eating  them  on 
All  Souls'  Day.  The  pastry  cooks  saw  their  opportunity, 
and  invented  a  small  round  puff,  coloured  blue  or  red  or  yel- 
low, and  hollow  inside;  these  they  called  fave,  or  beans; 
and  these  are  to  be  seen  at  this  time  of  the  year  in  all  the 
bakers'  windows.  If  a  man  should  happen  to  be  courting  at 
this  season  it  is  customary  for  him  to  make  a  present  of  a 
boxful  of  these  fave  to  his  lady.  But  the  pious  mind  has 
never  been  quite  at  ease  under  the  gastronomic  deception; 
and  so,  though  you  may  hate  beans  and  keep  your  hands  from 
them  as  scrupulously  as  any  pupil  of  Pythagoras, — should 
your  cook  chance  to  be  a  good  Catholic  you  will  assuredly, 
about  the  month  of  November,  have  beans  set  before  you  for 
dinner  in  Venice. 


CANALS,  WELLS  AND  SQUARES 

JULIA  CART  WRIGHT 

IT  would  be  impossible  to  conceive  any  street  in  the 
world  more  stately  or  more  full  of  exquisite  and  varied 
loveliness  than  this  of  the  Grand  Canal  as  it  was  in  the 
days  of  Venetian  greatness.  Even  to-day  we  feel,  in  Mr. 
Ruskin's  words,  how  utterly  impossible  it  is  for  any  man 
"  unless  on  terms  of  work  like  Albert  Diirer's  to  express  ad- 
equately the  mere  contents  of  architectural  beauty  in  any 
general  view  on  the  Grand  Canal."  Its  beautiful  sweep  and 
fascinating  surroundings  always  attract  artists  who,  like  Mr. 
Ruskin  himself,  can  overcome  the  difficulties  of  any  subject 
by  the  force  of  his  love,  as  he  has  sufficiently  proved  in  his 
own  Venetian  drawings.  But  it  is  not  only  on  the  Canalazzo 
that  we  must  seek  for  the  examples  of  the  architectural 
wealth  in  which  Venice  abounds.  Some  of  the  finest  palaces, 
as  well  as  of  some  of  the  choicest  specimens  of  Lombardi  and 
Sansovino's  art,  are  to  be  found  in  narrow  bye-canals  or  in 
obscure  campi  in  the  less  visited  quarters. 

Sometimes,  as  in  the  little  canals  of  St.  Bernado  or  the 
Campo  S.  Stefano,  you  have  four  or  five  palaces  with  richly 
worked  doorways  and  windows  close  together;  elsewhere  you 
come  upon  a  Gothic  portal  upon  which  the  Massegne  or  the 
Buoni  have  lavished  all  the  luxuriance  of  their  wonderful 
invention.  The  beautiful  gabled  relief  of  Madonnas  and 
saints  on  the  Bridge  of  Paradise  will  be  familiar  to  most  of  us, 
229 


230  VENICE 

and  there  is  a  door  with  an  angel  raising  his  hand  in  blessing 
out  near  S.  Margherita  that  is  worth  remembering.  Some  of 
the  older  houses,  where  fragments  of  Byzantine  work  remain, 
have  crosses  let  in  between  the  windows  or  emblems  of  the 
four  Evangelists  in  the  spandrils  of  the  arches.  A  wall  in  the 
little  Campiello  S.  Angaran  still  retains  the  medallion  of  a 
Byzantine  Caesar  of  the  Ninth  Century,  and  on  the  Corte 
Sabbionera,  close  to  the  favourite  Teatro  Malibran,  is  a 
quaint  horseshoe  arch,  patterned  over  with  plants  and  animals, 
curious  by  reason  of  its  Arabic  form,  and  still  more  interest- 
ing as  having  belonged  to  the  house  in  which  Marco  Polo 
was  born. 

It  is  no  uncommon  thing  to  stumble  upon  a  row  of  Byzan- 
tine windows  in  a  dilapidated  palace  inhabited  by  five  or  six 
of  the  poorest  families,  and  even  to  see  clothes  hung  out  to 
dry  on  the  parapet  of  a  balcony  ornamented  with  delicate 
flower-work,  cornices  and  sculptured  dragons  or  birds.  A 
few  years  ago  there  was  a  balcony  on  a  palace  in  a  narrow 
lane  somewhere  near  the  Shrine  of  the  Seave,  traditionally 
ascribed  to  Sansovino,  and  adorned  with  the  most  exquisite 
heads  of  fauns  and  satyrs,  with  a  character  and  expression  of 
its  own.  Let  no  one  seek  to  find  it  there,  for,  like  so  many 
other  rare  things  in  Venice,  it  has  vanished;  and  the  best 
hope  we  can  cherish  is  that  it  may  be  one  of  those  rescued 
from  destruction  by  the  care  of  Mr.  J.  C.  Robinson,  and 
preserved  at  South  Kensingston  or  Birmingham. 

Many  of  the  dark  and  dirty  courtyards  at  the  back  of 
these  old  palaces  are  well  worth  visiting  for  the  sake  of  the 


S.    MARIA    DELLA   MISERICORDA:    DOCK. 


CANALS,  WELLS,  SQUARES    231 

ancient  staircases  and  wells  they  contain.  Some  of  the  stair- 
cases are  open  to  the  sky,  and  are  supported  by  Gothic  arches 
and  twisted  pillars,  others  are  in  the  style  of  the  late  Renais- 
sance, ornamented  with  white  marble  statues  that  still  throw 
long  lines  of  light  into  the  water  below.  Strangers  are  sure 
to  be  shown  the  lovely  spiral  staircases  of  Palazzo  Minelli, 
enclosed  in  a  turret,  in  the  dark  little  Corte  del  Maltese, 
which  in  form  so  closely  resembles  the  Tower  of  Pisa,  and 
that  other  scarcely  less  picturesque  at  the  corner  of  the  house 
where  Goldoni  was  born. 

No  less  interesting  are  the  old  wells,  bocche  and  cinte  di 
pozzi,  which  you  find  in  every  campo  and  in  almost  every 
courtyard  of  Venice.  Next  to  the  windows,  balconies,  door- 
ways, and  tombs,  these  were  the  most  favourite  subjects  on 
which  the  Venetian  sculptors  lavished  their  skill,  and  those 
still  remaining  are  shaped  and  adorned  with  infinite  variety. 
They  are  so  beautiful  in  themselves,  and  so  closely  connected 
with  the  history  of  Venice,  that  they  have  always  seemed  to 
me  deserving  of  greater  attention  than  has  been  usually  paid 
them. 

From  the  earliest  times  the  supply  of  water  received  the 
especial  attention  of  the  State,  and  there  are  said  to  be  no 
less  than  two  thousand  public  cisterns  in  Venice  at  the  present 
time.  In  the  year  1130  the  Paduans,  who  were  then  at  war 
with  Venice,  tried  to  dam  up  the  Brenta,  and  thus  cut  off  the 
chief  water-supply  of  Venice.  The  alarm  which  this  step 
excited  led  to  the  opening  of  a  number  of  new  wells  in  the 
city,  and  several  of  those  which  still  exist  date  back  to  that 


232  VENICE 

period.  Some  are  even  older,  and  probably  belong  to  the 
Tenth  and  Eleventh  Centuries.  These  are  generally  made 
of  Greek  marble,  while  later  ones  are  of  the  white  Istrian 
stone  so  common  in  Venice,  or  else  of  red  Verona  marble.  A 
complete  study  of  these  wells  would  include  the  whole  history 
of  Venetian  sculpture,  which  we  find  reflected  in  all  its  dif- 
ferent phases  in  the  specimens  to  be  found  at  Venice  and  its 
neighbouring  islands.  At  Torcello  and  Murano  and  in 
some  parts  of  Venice  we  may  still  see  wells  of  Byzantine  date, 
carved  with  Greek  crosses  and  stars  and  peacocks,  with  inter- 
laced circles  and  other  patterns  delicately  worked  in  the  flat 
relief  common  in  pavements  and  tombs  of  this  epoch  in 
Ravenna.  Next  we  have  the  Gothic  wells  of  which  splendid 
specimens  are  to  be  seen  in  the  Corte  Bressana,  amongst  other 
places.  The  earlier  of  these  are  shaped  like  the  huge  capital 
of  a  pillar,  and  are  severe  and  simple  in  design,  while  others 
are  enriched  with  all  the  luxuriant  foliage  and  variety  of 
heads,  lions,  griffins  and  birds,  in  which  the  later  Venetian 
sculptors  delighted.  Finally,  there  are  the  wells  which  be- 
long, by  their  form  and  decoration,  to  the  Sixteenth  and 
Seventeenth  Centuries.  The  more  elaborate  specimens  of 
this  period  are  profusely  adorned  with  flowers  and  leaves, 
medallions,  rosettes,  bead  and  scroll-work — in  short,  with 
every  kind  of  Renaissance  ornament.  The  finest  examples 
of  this  numerous  and  well-preserved  class  are  the  octagonal 
bronze  wells  in  the  court  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  designed  after 
Vittoria's  style  by  Alberghetti  of  Ferrara  and  Niccolo  de 
Conti  in  the  middle  of  the  Sixteenth  Century 


CANALS,  WELLS,  SQUARES    233 

It  would  be  unjust  to  the  dry  land  if  we  did  not  acknowl- 
edge the  picturesqueness  of  the  calle  where  the  high  roofs 
shut  out  all  but  the  narrowest  strip  of  blue  sky,  and  where 
swinging  shutters  and  jutting  balconies  and  window-sills  with 
crimson  and  yellow  stuffs  hanging  over  them,  and  little 
shrines  of  Virgin  and  saints,  each  with  their  lamp  burning, 
and  shops  and  wares  and  laces  are  crowded  together  in  the 
most  inextricable  confusion. 

Out  of  these  crooked  and  bewildering  streets,  with  their 
bright  medley  of  form  and  colour,  we  emerge  on  to  the 
campi,  or  squares,  in  front  of  the  churches,  to  which  they 
were  originally  attached  as  burial-grounds.  Each  of  these 
squares  is  now  a  little  centre  of  life,  and  has  its  farmacia  and 
grocery  and  fruiterer's  shop,  perhaps  a  palazzo  with  the 
upper  stories  to  let,  sometimes  a  tree  or  two  swaying  leafy 
boughs  against  the  balconies.  Each  has  its  well  generally 
raised  on  steps,  round  which  the  gossips  of  the  place  collect 
and  where  you  may  glean  many  a  characteristic  and  amusing 
incident  of  Venetian  life.  Every  morning  at  eight  o'clock 
the  iron  lid  which  closes  its  mouth  is  unlocked,  and  then  there 
is  a  clanking  of  heels  on  the  stone  pavement  and  a  brisk 
chattering  of  tongues,  as  the  water-carriers,  stout-built  pea- 
sant maidens  from  Friuli,  each  wearing  the  same  high- 
crowned  hat  and  short  skirts,  come  to  fill  their  copper 
buckets  at  the  well.  Many  of  the  campi  in  front  of  the 
well-known  churches  have  furnished  subjects  to  our  painters, 
such  as  the  square  in  front  of  San  Giovanni  e  Paolo,  the 
burial-place  of  the  Doges,  which  is  further  adorned  by  the 


234  VENICE1 

presence  of  Colleoni's  glorious  statue  and  that  masterpiece  of 
the  Lombard's  art,  the  Scuola  di  San  Marco.  Another 
favourite  bit  is  the  little  Campiello  di  San  Rocco  with  the 
back  of  the  church  of  the  Frari  towering  over  the  roofs  and 
some  trefoil  windows  in  a  house  on  the  right  which  formed 
the  subject  of  one  of  Prout's  pictures. 

Less  familiar,  but  quite  as  well  worth  knowing,  is  the  still 
grassy  square  in  front  of  the  remote  church  of  the  Madonna 
dell'  Orto,  where  the  tall  Gothic  windows  and  traceries  of 
red  and  white  marble  with  which  Bartolommeo  Buoni 
adorned  that  fair  shrine  look  down  on  the  sunny  turf.  This 
is  the  very  edge  of  the  lagoon.  A  few  steps  further  on  you 
have  a  splendid  view  over  the  wide  expanse  from  the  creek 
or  Sacca  della  Misericorda. 


SUMMER  IN  VENICE 

LINDA    VILLARI 

VENICE  in  Summer!  To  most  ears  the  words 
seems  synonymous  with  much  heat,  bad  odours, 
and  mosquitoes  innumerable.  These  are  there,  it 
is  true,  yet  may  all  be  escaped.  Venice  is  the  one  city  of 
Italy  where  summer  days  need  not  be  spent  in  darkened  rooms, 
where  heat  may  be  defied,  and  evening  glories  and  the  cool 
salt  breath  of  the  lagoon  bring  delights  far  outweighing  the 
chance  discomfort  of  fervid  noons.  But  to  enjoy  your  sum- 
mer is  essential  to  live  in  private  lodgings.  Then,  and  then 
only,  you  feel  the  full  charm  of  Venetian  magic.  No  tourist- 
talk  breaks  the  spell,  no  dinner-bell  curtails  your  study  of  sea 
and  sky,  and  every  door  can  be  left  open  to  invite  full 
draughts  of  air. 

Instead  of  the  irksome  glare  and  chatter  of  a  crowded 
table  d'hote,  you  have  the  choice  of  quiet  meals  in  your  own 
dim  dining-room,  of  frugal  repasts  beneath  the  vines  of  the 
artist-haunted  restaurant,  on  the  Zattere  beside  the  Giudecca 
Canal,  or  of  set  dinners  at  the  Lido  Baths,  where  courses  of 
changing  effects  on  waves  and  sky,  and  distant  strip  of  tree- 
fringed  coast  feast  your  eyes  better  than  the  too-dilatory  dishes 
nourish  your  body. 

As  for  the  dreaded  mosquitoes,  their  numbers  are  few  until 
the  hungry  swallows  have  flown,  and  they  are  too  well  en- 
235 


236  VENICE 

gaged  on  fresh  English  blood  in  the  hotels  near  the  Salute  and 
along  the  Riva  to  make  any  raids  on  private  houses. 

The  ideal  Venetian  lodging  should  be,  of  course,  in  some 
palace  of  historic  name,  with  carven  balconies,  painted  arches, 
and  lofty  echoing  halls.  Such  lodgings,  however,  are  seldom 
to  be  found,  and  you  usually  have  to  content  yourself  with 
more  plebeian  surroundings,  and  satisfy  your  soul  with  local 
colour  of  a  humbler  sort. 

Fate  led  us  to  San  Samuele,  and  gave  us  a  modest  dwelling, 
shrinking  back  on  a  little  campo  on  the  Grand  Canal,  placed 
between  Ca'Malipiero  and  Ca'Grassi,  opposite  the  massive 
Rezzonico  Palace,  for  which  even  Renaissance-hating  Mr. 
Ruskin  can  find  no  word  of  blame.  Thus  we  commanded  a 
space  of  the  great  highway,  and  had  a  perfect  Venetian  view 
across  the  water,  down  winding  Rio  San  Barnaba,  with  its 
bridge  and  brown  tower,  tall  grey  campanile,  irregular  patches 
of  roof,  and  fan-shaped  chimneys.  The  vine-trellis,  shading 
our  traghetto,  or  gondola-stand,  was  a  pleasant  object  in  the 
foreground.  There  was  a  sculptured  wrell  in  the  Campo 
beside  us,  and  the  belfry  of  St.  Samuel  was  built  into  our 
house,  and  bounded  our  scrap  of  roof-terrace  to  the  rear. 
Viewed  by  moonlight  from  the  canal,  it  seemed  a  fit  scene 
for  operatic  love  and  crime. 

Knowing  that  every  inch  of  Venetian  ground,  every  street 
and  square  and  bridge,  every  Campo  and  Rio  and  Calle, 
Salizzada  and  Fondamenta,  has  some  historic  associations  to 
compare  with  those  of  the  arched  and  pillared  palaces  that 
are  better  known  to  fame,  we  made  haste  to  inquire  into  the 


SUMMER  IN  VENICE  237 

past  of  our  own  humble  campo,  and  the  humbler  network  of 
devious  lanes  in  its  rear.  Putting  aside  one  or  two  ugly  tales 
of  crime,  the  following  were  all  the  particulars  we  were  able 
to  glean: 

The  Church  of  San  Samuele,  only  open  for  early  morning 
service,  pending  repairs,  dates  from  the  beginning  of  the 
Eleventh  Century;  but,  having  been  twice  partly  destroyed 
by  fire,  was  almost  entirely  rebuilt  in  the  Seventeenth  Cen- 
tury, and  our  noisy  belfry  is  probably  all  that  remains  of  the 
original  structure.  The  church  contains  no  works  of  art 
worthy  of  mention,  but  the  parish  is  rich  in  artistic  memories. 

Titian  once  possessed  a  studio  hard  by  in  the  house  of 
the  architect  Bartolommeo  Buono.  The  sculptors  Giulio, 
Tullio  and  Antonio  Lombardo  lived  at  San  Samuele,  and  it 
was  the  birthplace  of  Madesta  da  Pozzo,  a  learned  lady  of 
much  repute  in  the  Sixteenth  Century.  Paolo  Veronese 
spent  his  last  years  in  the  Casa  Zecchini,  and  died  there  in 
1588  of  a  fever  caught  by  taking  part  in  a  grand  Easter  pro- 
cession. His  sons  and  grandsons,  painters  all,  continued  to 
live  there;  and  in  their  days  the  house  was  enriched  by  many 
of  the  elder  Caliari's  works.  Girolamo  Campagna,  too,  had 
once  plied  his  chisel  and  fused  his  bronze  in  the  same  build- 
ing. Several  artists  of  lesser  note,  like  Giralomo  Pilotti,  the 
follower  of  Palma  Vecchio,  Ridolfi,  the  painter  and  biog- 
rapher of  painters,  and  Pietro  Literi,  whose  profitable  brush 
enabled  him  to  build  himself  the  palace  now  known  as  Casa 
Morolin,  also  lived  within  sound  of  our  bells.  Here  at  San 
Samuele,  the  notorious  adventurer,  Giacomo  Casannova, 


238  VENICE 

first  opened  his  audacious  eyes,  and  may  have  passed  his  early 
years  in  squabbling  on  the  campo  with  other  ragamuffins, 
hooking  gondolas  for  a  copper  coin,  and  diving  in  the  canal 
on  summer  nights,  much  after  the  manner  of  the  Nineteenth 
Century  imps,  whose  shrill  voices  made  a  frequent  treble  to 
the  deeper  tones  of  our  gondoliers,  and  here,  in  later  and 
comparatively  respectable  days,  when  employed  as  a  spy  of 
the  Inquisition,  he  may  perhaps  have  penned  the  famous  report 
in  which  he  denounced  the  possession  of  many  impious  and 
prohibited  works.  The  list  is  curious,  and  includes  the 
works  of  Voltaire  and  Rousseau,  the  Esprit  of  Helvetius, 
the  Belisarius  of  Marmontel,  sundry  productions  of  Crebillon 
and  Diderot,  the  De  Rerum  Natura  of  Lucretius,  Boling- 
broke's  Examination,  the  writings  of  Machiavelli,  Spinoza, 
etc.  The  pious  criticisms  of  the  white-washed  rogue  were 
somewhat  sweeping  in  their  range.  His  white-wash,  how- 
ever, had  rubbed  off  by  the  time  he  composed  his  scandalous 
memoires  and  miraculous  escapes  from  the  Piombi,  in  the 
Bohemian  castle  of  his  last  patron. 

Being  flanked  and  faced  by  patrician  abodes,  our  modest 
campo  has  had  its  share  of  the  festive  shows  for  which 
Venice  has  at  all  times  been  celebrated;  but  its  noblest  pa- 
geant must  have  been  that  of  the  wedding  of  Lucrezia  Con- 
tarini  and  Jacopo,  son  of  the  Doge  Francesco  Foscari,  on 
Sunday,  the  29th  of  January,  1441.  Then  a  crowd  of 
patrician  guests  in  festal  attire,  and  mounted  on  gaily  capari- 
soned steeds,  rode  to  the  campo  from  all  quarters  of  the 
town,  and  crossed  the  canal  to  San  Barnaba  on  a  bridge  of 


SUMMER  IN  VENICE          239 

boats  erected  for  the  occasion.  The  Serenissimo  went  in  per- 
son to  meet  the  bride  at  High  Mass  in  that  brown-towered 
church;  and,  later  an  open-air  sermon  was  preached  on  the 
campo  without  to  a  great  concourse  of  hearers,  tanti  zenti 
lomeni  e  puovola  che  no  se  podeva  andar  in  alcun  luogo — 
so  many  nobles  and  townsfolk  that  there  was  no  room  to  stir. 
And  in  the  evening,  the  Bucintoro  brought  a  hundred  and 
fifty  noble  dames  to  lead  the  bride,  escorted  by  a  fleet  of  skiffs 
and  gondolas  to  her  new  home  in  the  Ducal  Palace,  where 
the  wedding  festivities  were  prolonged  far  into  the  night. 
Fortunately,  no  astrologer  seems  to  have  dimmed  the  bright- 
ness of  the  day  by  foretelling  how  soon  this  joy  was  to  be 
turned  into  mourning;  the  gay  young  bridegroom  made  the 
victim  of  relentless  persecution,  and  his  splendid  father 
stripped  of  his  state,  and  left  to  die  of  sheer  misery  in  his 
family  palace  at  the  turn  of  the  Canal!  Foscari's  successor, 
Doge  Malipiero,  also  abode  at  San  Samuele,  and  the  sculp- 
tured archway  of  his  palace  in  the  Salizzada  frames  a  dainty 
garden  scene  with  fountain  and  statues  in  the  background. 

Never  live  near  a  traghetto,  say  old  Venetians:  and  we 
might  add,  never  beside  a  well  or  in  front  of  a  belfry.  But 
although  at  the  cost  of  quiet,  our  position  had  undoubted  ad- 
vantages for  insight  into  local  manners  and  customs.  Daily 
at  5  A.  M.  St.  Samuel's  iron  voice  reminded  us  that  we  were  in 
Venice,  its  vibrations  shaking  us  in  our  beds.  An  hour  later, 
the  clang  of  copper  pails,  clinking  of  chains  and  shrill  clatter 
of  housewives'  tongues  announced  the  opening  of  the  well. 
Soon  the  ringers  were  again  at  work  in  our  belfry,  the  pierc- 


240  VENICE 

ing  whistles  of  the  "  tram  "  steamers,  most  disturbing  of 
modern  utilities,  began  to  resound  from  the  canal,  and  the 
every  day  business  of  Venice  was  fairly  begun. 

As  for  the  gondoliers  of  our  traghetto,  they  were  never 
quiet :  all  hours  seemed  alike  to  them.  Like  the  poet's  hack- 
neyed brook,  they  too  ran  on  forever.  They  seldom  ceased 
quarrelling  with  one  another  excepting  to  wage  a  fiercer  war 
of  words  with  their  brethren  of  the  opposite  stand.  Hail- 
storms of  invective  were  always  flying  back  and  forth  across 
the  water.  The  only  truce  to  the  undying  feud  was  when 
both  sides  joined  in  volleys  of  bad  language  against  their 
common  foes,  the  penny  steamers  that  have  so  wofully  dimin- 
ished their  gains.  One  day,  one  of  these  steamers  chanced  to 
foul  the  nearest  landing-stage,  and  instantly  the  air  was  rent 
by  the  derisive  howls  of  all  the  gondoliers  within  sight. 

But  if  our  noisy  crew  had  little  work,  neither  did  they  take 
much  repose.  Towards  1 1  p.  M.  there  would  be  a  promising 
lull  in  their  disputes:  they  would  indulge  in  prolonged  and 
prodigious  yawns.  Custom  was  growing  scarce,  there  were 
fewer  footsteps  on  the  pavement,  fewer  cries  of  "  Poppi  " — 
the  signal  for  hailing  a  gondola  to  ferry  you  over  the  canal — 
came  to  summon  them  to  their  oars.  Surely  they  would 
slumber  at  last,  and  allow  silence  to  reign  in  our  campo! 
Not  at  all !  Within  half  an  hour  they  were  livelier  than  ever 
— all  fatigue  had  evaporated  in  yawns,  and  they  had  so  much 
spare  energy  that  they  were  driven  to  vent  it  in  sudden  bursts 
of  stentorian  song,  and  thus  excite  the  emulation  of  the  San 
Barnaba  rivals.  Luckily  the  air  of  Venice  is  soothing  to  new- 


SUMMER  IN  VENICE          241 

comers,  so  we  learnt  the  art  of  sleeping  through  the  din,  and 
it  was  difficult  to  wake  at  any  hour  without  hearing  it  going 
on  almost  as  briskly  as  before.  The  only  tranquil  time  was 
just  towards  daybreak.  A  Venetian  dawn  in  July  is  well 
worth  the  cost  of  a  sleepless  night,  and  its  clear-eyed  frank- 
ness as  beautiful  in  its  way  as  the  mysterious  fantasies  played 
by  moonlight  on  walls  and  water.  Naturally  here  at  San 
Samuele,  midway  up  the  Grand  Canal,  you  miss  the  splendour 
of  sunrise  on  the  sea  to  be  enjoyed  from  the  Riva;  but  lack 
of  horizon  is  almost  balanced  by  the  added  suggestiveness  of 
effects  within  the  narrower  range  of  vision.  For  instance, 
this  is  what  we  saw  during  the  small  hours  of  a  July  morn- 
ing. First,  the  soft  twilight  that  had  never  been  gloom  at 
any  period  of  the  brief  night,  gradually  paled  to  a  faint  white- 
ness in  which  the  slender,  grey,  angel-topped  campanile  down 
our  favourite  opening  by  the  Rezzonico  walls  seemed  to  lose 
all  substance  and  become  a  cloud  structure — a  mere  film 
instead  of  a  pile  of  stones.  The  sturdy  brown  tower  of  San 
Barnaba  wore  a  deeper,  warmer  tint  as  the  light  grew  and 
the  stars  died  out.  A  few  tiny  cloudlets  began  to  dapple  the 
clear  zenith,  slowly  expanded  and  were  slowly  suffused 
by  a  delicate  flush  that  presently  deepened  to  a  vivid  rose, 
streaked  with  grey  and  backed  by  darker  wool-packs.  By 
this  time  the  swallows  were,  on  the  wing,  circling  swiftly 
in  the  air,  and  emitting  their  sharp  sweet  note.  Pigeons, 
tooj  were  flitting  down  from  cornice  and  house  top,  with 
much  velvety  flutter  and  melodious  whirr.  Sparrows,  pert 
and  well-plumed,  darted  this  way  and  that,  and  hopped 


242  VENICE 

lightly  about  the  deserted  pavement.  One  or  two  boats 
appeared  on  the  canal:  the  eyes  of  Venice  were  begin- 
ning to  open  for  the  day.  Soon  a  great  barge  lumbers  past 
laden  with  fresh  water  from  the  mainland.  It  is  so  full 
that  a  bare  few  inches  of  woodwork  save  the  "  sweet  water  " 
within  from  mingling  with  the  brakish  element  without. 
How  unkempt  and  sleepy-eyed  are  the  red-capped  bargees  so 
patiently  trudging  the  length  of  their  craft  with  shoulders 
hard-pressed  to  their  punting  poles. 

Theirs  is  no  easy  trade!  With  favourable  wind  and  tide 
they  have  had  at  least  an  eight  hours'  sail!  With  wind  and 
tide  against  them,  it  is  sometimes  a  two  days'  journey.  Yet 
this  cargo  of  water  only  brings  them  five  francs.  Having 
reached  its  destination,  the  barge  is  quickly  tackled  by  a  busy 
little  engine,  which,  with  much  noise  and  fuss,  distributes  its 
contents  into  smaller  boats,  that  in  their  turn  fill  the  public 
wells  by  means  of  far-reaching  hose. 

The  sky  was  still  bright  with  the  freshness  of  early  morn, 
there  were  blue  spaces  still  mottled  with  rose,  but  the  tenderly 
blushing  cloudlets  had  gone,  just  as  the  joyous  smiles  of  in- 
fancy vanish  in  the  gravity  of  manhood.  Storm  clouds  were 
now  thickening  over  the  lagoon  to  the  south,  and  although 
unseen  from  our  San  Samuele  windows,  they  had  sent  their 
messengers  before  them.  Dark  brownish  masses  began  to  en- 
croach on  the  azure  overhead,  and  this  was  already  touched 
here  and  there  by  the  tiny  brush-strokes  of  the  wind.  Morn- 
ing was  full-blown  now,  and  a  cool  breeze  at  last  brought 
sleep  to  nerve  us  for  the  coming  heat  of  the  day. 


NIGHT  IN   VENICE 

JOHN  ADD1NGTON  SYMONDS 

NIGHT  in  Venice!  Night  is  nowhere  else  so 
wonderful,  unless  it  be  in  winter  among  the  high 
Alps.  But  the  nights  of  Venice  and  the  nights  of 
the  mountains  are  too  different  in  kind  to  be  compared. 

There  is  the  ever-recurring  miracle  of  the  full  moon  rising 
before  day  is  dead,  behind  San  Giorgio,  spreading  a  path  of 
gold  on  the  lagoon  which  black  boats  traverse  with  the  glow- 
worm lamp  upon  their  prow ;  ascending  the  cloudless  sky  and 
silvering  the  domes  of  the  Salute;  pouring  vitreous  sheen 
upon  the  red  lights  of  the  Piazzetta;  flooding  the  Grand 
Canal,  and  lifting  the  Rialto  higher  in  ethereal  whiteness; 
piercing  but  penetrating  not  the  murky  labyrinth  of  rio  linked 
with  rio,  through  which  we  wind  in  light  and  shadow,  to 
reach  once  more  the  level  glories,  and  the  luminous  expanse 
of  heaven  beyond  the  Misericord ia. 

This  is  the  melodrama  of  Venetian  moonlight;  and  if  a 
single  impression  of  the  night  has  to  be  retained  from  one 
visit  to  Venice,  those  are  fortunate  who  chance  upon  a  full 
moon  of  fair  weather.  Yet  I  know  not  whether  some  quieter 
and  soberer  effects  are  not  more  thrilling.  To-night,  for 
example,  the  waning  moon  will  rise  late  through  veils  of 
sirocco.  Over  the  bridges  of  San  Cristoforo  and  San  Gre- 
gorio,  through  the  deserted  Calle  di  Mezzo,  my  friend  and 
243 


244  VENICE 

I  walk  in  darkness,  pass  the  marble  basements  of  the  Salute, 
and  push  our  way  along  its  Riva  to  the  point  of  the  Dogana. 
We  are  at  sea  alone,  between  the  Canalozzo  and  the  Giu- 
decca.  A  moist  wind  ruffles  the  water  and  cools  our  fore- 
heads. It  is  so  dark  that  we  can  only  see  San  Giorgio  by  the 
light  reflected  on  it  from  the  Piazzetta.  The  same  light 
climbs  the  Campanile  of  St.  Mark,  and  shows  the  golden 
angel  in  a  mystery  of  gloom.  The  only  noise  that  reaches 
us  is  a  confused  hum  from  the  Piazza,.  Sitting  and  musing 
there,  the  blackness  of  the  water  whispers  in  our  ears  a  tale 
of  death.  And  now  we  hear  a  plash  of  oars,  and  gliding 
through  the  darkness  comes  a  single  boat.  One  man  leaps 
upon  the  landing-place  without  a  word  and  disappears. 
There  is  another  wrapped  in  a  military  cloak  asleep.  I  see 
his  face  beneath  me,  pale  and  quiet.  The  barcaruolo  turns 
the  point  in  silence.  From  the  darkness  they  came;  into  the 
darkness  they  have  gone.  It  is  only  an  ordinary  incident  of 
coast-guard  service.  But  the  spirit  of  the  night  has  made  a 
poem  of  it. 

Even  tempestuous  and  rainy  weather,  though  melancholy 
enough,  is  never  sordid  here.  There  is  no  noise  from  car- 
riage traffic,  and  the  sea-wind  preserves  the  purity  and  trans- 
parency of  the  atmosphere.  It  had  been  raining  all  day,  but 
at  evening  came  a  partial  clearing.  I  went  down  to  the 
Molo,  where  the  large  reach  of  the  lagoon  was  all  moon- 
silvered,  and  San  Giorgio  Maggiore  dark  against  the  bluish 
sky,  and  Santa  Maria  della  Salute  domed  with  moon- 
irradiated  pearl,  and  the  wet  slabs  of  the  Riva  shimmering  in 


NIGHT  IN  VENICE  245 

moonlight,  the  whole  misty  sky,  with  its  clouds  and  stellar 
spaces,  drenched  in  moonlight,  nothing  but  moonlight  sen- 
sible except  the  tawny  flare  of  gas-lamps  and  the  orange 
lights  of  gondolas  afloat  upon  the  waters.  On  such  a  night 
the  very  spirit  of  Venice  is  abroad.  We  feel  why  she  is 
called  Bride  of  the  Sea. 

Take  yet  another  night.  There  had  been  a  representation 
of  Verdi's  Forza  del  Destino  at  the  Teatro  Malibran.  After 
midnight  we  walked  homeward  through  the  Merceria, 
crossed  the  Piazza,  and  dived  into  the  narrow  calle  which 
leads  to  the  traghetto  of  the  Salute.  It  was  a  warm,  moist, 
starless  night,  and  there  seemed  no  air  to  breathe  in  those 
narrow  alleys.  The  gondolier  was  half  asleep.  Eustace 
called  him  as  we  jumped  into  his  boat,  and  rang  our  soldi  on 
the  gunwale.  Then  he  arose  and  turned  the  ferro  round, 
and  stood  across  towards  the  Salute.  Silently,  insensibly, 
from  the  oppression  of  confinement  in  the  airless  streets  to  the 
liberty  and  immensity  of  the  water  and  the  night  we  passed. 
It  was  but  two  minutes  ere  we  touched  the  shore  and  said 
good-night,  and  went  our  way  and  left  the  ferryman.  But 
in  that  brief  passage  he  had  opened  our  souls  to  everlasting 
things, — the  freshness,  and  the  darkness,  and  the  kindness  of 
the  brooding,  all-enfolding  night  above  the  sea. 


THE  ARSENAL 

CHARLES  YRIARTE 

THE  Arsenal  of  Venice,  so  strong  and  formidable 
considering  the  date  of  its  construction,  was  the 
natural  outgrowth  to  that  spirit  of  commerce  and 
genius  for  barter.  It  was  also  a  powerful  auxiliary  to  the 
ambition  of  the  Venetians;  they  had  wished  to  make  their 
sovereignty  over  the  Adriatic  sure;  they  were  therefore 
bound  to  be  ready  at  any  moment  to  defend  their  pretensions, 
by  sending  against  those  who  would  dispute  their  claim  a  fleet 
strong  enough  to  compensate  for  the  weakness  of  their  claim. 

The  Sieur  de  Saint-Didier,  author  of  La  Ville  et  la  Re- 
publlque  of  Venice,  and  an  eye-witness  of  all  that  he  relates, 
says  that  the  arsenal  gives  the  best  idea  of  the  power  of 
Venice,  and  that  it  is  the  admiration  of  all  strangers  and 
"  the  foundation  of  the  whole  power  of  the  State." 

The  Turks>  who  were  the  constant  and  powerful  enemies 
of  the  Republic  and  who  often  brought  her  within  an  ace  of 
destruction,  always  looked  with  envious  eyes  upon  this  estab- 
lishment then  unrivalled  throughout  the  world;  and  when 
the  Grand  Viziers  received  the  Venetian  ambassadors,  they 
never  tired  of  asking  for  details  regarding  its  organisation, 
resources  and  strength.  Visitors  to  Venice  would  hurry  to  the 
arsenal  to  see  its  wonderful  plan  and  colossal  development; 
it  embodied  the  mo:~l  strength  of  Venice,  the  symbol  of  her 
246 


THE  ARSENAL  247 

power,  the  source  of  her  wealth;  here  you  could  lay  your 
finger  on  the  tremendous  springs  of  her  military  machinery 
and  realise  the  inexhaustible  resources  of  a  nation  which  had 
given  all  its  energies  to  the  construction  and  maintenance  of  a 
fleet  greatly  disproportionate  to  its  territory,  and  whose  su- 
premacy over  the  waters  embraced  all  the  coasts  of  the 
Archipelago. 

Of  all  modern  nations  the  Venetians  were  the  first  to  build 
strong  vessels ;  even  as  early  as  the  time  of  the  Crusades,  they 
undertook  the  transportation  of  French  armies ;  and  they  had 
not  merely  to  carry  the  troops  but  to  provide  escort  and 
defend  them  at  need.  The  heavy  galleys  had  seventy-five 
feet  of  keel  and  the  light  ones  were  a  hundred  and  thirty- 
five  feet  long;  the  cogues,  light  vessels  especially  used  for 
transport  service,  could  carry  as  many  as  a  thousand  men-at- 
arms  with  their  stores;  the  galeasses,  which  were  rowed  like 
galleys,  had  cannon-proof  prows  and  were  armed  with  fifty 
pieces  of  artillery  of  the  highest  known  calibre;  sixteen 
hundred  soldiers  could  easily  fight  on  board  one  of  them. 
When  such  masses  appeared  on  the  scene  of  battle,  their  at- 
tack was  irresistible  and  gained  the  victory.  For  more  than 
a  century,  rival  nations  were  unable  to  procure  means  of 
action  powerful  enough  to  oppose  these  Venetian  warships; 
but,  naturally  enough,  the  Genoese,  who  were  great 
navigators  and,  like  the  Spaniards  and  Turks,  redoubtable 
enemies,  endeavoured,  in  their  turn,  to  arm  ships  powerful 
enough  to  sustain  a  contest  and  at  last  they  succeeded. 
Thenceforward  there  was  a  continual  development  of 


248  VENICE 

methods  of  warfare,  successive  enlargements  of  the  arsenal, 
and  great  improvements  resulted  from  the  stimulus  arising 
from  the  rivalry  of  other  nations.  The  Venetians  remained 
the  superiors  in  one  thing, — their  artillery,  and  in  every 
naval  battle  that  they  won,  it  is  said  that  the  fate  of  the  day 
was  due  to  the  excellent  marksmanship  of  the  Venetian  gun- 
ners. All  their  ships,  even  the  lightest  of  them,  were  armed 
with  cannon;  the  little  galleys,  so  alert  and  useful  in  attack 
and  which  could  enter  the  creeks  of  the  bay,  could  also  resist 
the  shocks  of  the  enemy,  thanks  to  the  fifteen  pieces  of  artil- 
lery with  which  they  were  armed. 

At  first  the  arsenal  was  only  a  dockyard  for  the  construc- 
tion of  merchant  ships  and  galleys ;  it  stood  on  the  site  of  the 
ancient  island  Gemole  or  Gemelle  (twins),  in  the  eastern 
part  of  the  town ;  the  place  was  open  for  a  long  time  before 
it  was  enclosed  by  walls  and  organised  as  a  national  establish- 
ment. Until  then  dockyards  were  improvised,  wherever 
space  could  be  found  and  wherever  they  were  required ;  thus 
in  1104  and  1298,  fifteen  large  galleys  were  put  on  the 
stocks,  in  the  place  where  the  Royal  Gardens  now  are,  on  the 
very  edge  of  the  water.  During  the  Thirteenth  Century,  the 
arsenal  was  firmly  established  and  the  Senate  devoted  all  its 
energies  to  enlarging  it ;  neighbouring  grounds  were  bought, 
new  docks  were  dug,  and  dry-docks  and  repairing  and  build- 
ing docks  were  added  whose  names  show  that  they  were  an- 
nexed by  degrees.  Many  a  time  the  ruin  of  the  arsenal  was 
the  ambition  of  the  enemy;  and  incessant  watch  was  kept 
over  it;  its  square  towers  at  the  corners  and  its  fortified 


THE  ARSENAL  249 

walls  were  perpetually  guarded  by  picked  troops.  Once  it 
happened  that  during  a  war  against  the  Genoese  and  Turks, 
spies  or  paid  emissaries  of  the  enemy  tried  to  set  fire  to  it. 
In  1428  we  hear  of  the  case  of  a  Brabancpn,  who  is  said  to 
have  been  bribed  by  the  Duke  of  Milan  to  destroy  the  estab- 
lishment ;  he  was  condemned  to  be  quartered  on  the  Piazzetta ; 
and  his  body,  tied  to  the  tail  of  a  horse,  was  dragged  along 
the  Riva  dei  Schiavoni.  At  the  close  of  the  Fifteenth  Century, 
according  to  a  traveller,  who  has  left  a  descriptive  memoir, 
Venice  employed  sixteen  thousand  workmen,  caulkers, 
carpenters  and  painters,  and  thirty-six  thousand  seamen.  It 
was  about  this  time,  in  1491,  that  the  Senate  created  the 
special  magistracy  of  "  Provveditori  al  arsenale." 

These  magistrates  remained  in  office  two  years  and  eight 
months,  and  they  had  to  leave  their  Venetian  palaces  and  live 
in  three  houses  specially  built  for  them,  the  names  of  which 
— Paradise,  Purgatory  and  Hell — are  still  preserved.  Each 
one  had  to  be  on  duty  a  fortnight  in  turn,  during  which  time 
he  had  to  sleep  in  a  special  apartment  in  the  ramparts.  He 
kept  the  keys  of  the  arsenal  in  his  room,  made  the  rounds, 
and  answered  with  his  head  for  the  safety  of  the  place.  To 
these  three  magistrates  was  attached  a  secretary,  il  fidelissimo 
segretario  del  reggimento.  The  arsenal  had  but  one  en- 
trance; and  the  only  way  of  gaining  admission,  short  of 
scaling  the  high  walls,  was  by  means  of  a  small  iron  gate 
that  opened  on  the  little  campo. 

Everything  concerning  ship-building  and  armament,  direc- 
tion of  the  works,  purchase  of  wood  and  iron,  organisation  of 


250  VENICE 

the  workshops,  discipline  of  the  workmen,  commanding  of 
the  troops,  training  of  the  seamen,  storekeeping,  provisioning 
and  contracts  was  under  the  provveditori.  They  formed 
themselves  into  a  committee  for  testing  and  examining  all  the 
new  inventions  submitted  by  their  fellow-countrymen  or  by 
foreigners.  The  artillery  formed  a  separate  department, 
under  the  special  management  of  another  magistrate,  the 
Provveditore  all'  artigliera. 

The  outward  appearance  of  the  arsenal  has  hardly  changed 
since  the  middle  of  the  Sixteenth  Century,  as  we  learn  from  a 
curious  engraving  by  Giacomo  Franco,  which  represents  the 
workmen  leaving  the  yard  after  receiving  their  pay,  and 
shows  the  same  architecture  and  decoration  that  we  see  to- 
day, with,  however,  one  exception :  the  great  lions  that  orna- 
ment the  entrance  were  not  there  then.  These  strange 
granite  sentinels  which  give  the  building  such  a  singular 
character,  works  of  antiquity  brought  from  Greece  by  the 
conquerors  of  the  Peloponnesus  and  to  which  they  did  not 
hesitate  to  claim  that  their  origin,  or  rather  their  original 
use,  was  to  commemorate  the  famous  Battle  of  Marathon^ 
were  not  placed  on  their  pedestals  until  the  Seventeenth  Cen- 
tury. The  learned  authors  of  the  famous  compilation 
Venice  et  ses  Lagunes,  say  that  one  of  the  lions  stood  on  the 
Lepsina  road  from  Athens  to  Eleusis,  and  that  the  other,  the 
one  that  is  sitting,  was  at  the  Piraeus.  The  following  quo- 
tation leaves  no  doubt  regarding  the  Venetians'  seizure  of 
these  two  trophies :  "  The  gate  is  now  called  Porto  Draco,  or 
Lion  Gate,  on  account  of  a  colossal  marble  lion  that  was 


THE  ARSENAL  251 

placed  on  a  large  pedestal  near  the  mouth  of  the  harbour.  It 
was  ten  feet  high,  sitting  on  his  haunches  and  looking  to- 
wards the  South.  As  its  mouth  was  pierced  it  is  thought 
that  it  was  originally  a  fountain.  In  1687  this  lion  was 
brought  to  Venice  by  the  Venetians  and  placed  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  arsenal  of  the  city." 

The  workmen  were  a  picked  body,  and  the  Republic 
counted  so  much  on  their  fidelity  that  the  guard  of  the  Grand 
Council  and  Senate  was  entrusted  to  them.  They  were 
soldiers  as  well  as  artisans,  united  under  military  organisation 
and  brigaded  and  inspected  in  their  work  by  the  same  men 
who  commanded  them  as  officers;  and  on  many  occasions 
this  body  of  ten  thousand — sometimes  as  many  as  sixteen 
thousand — men,  was  the  secret  guarantee  of  the  internal 
safety  of  the  Venetian  government. 

Side  by  side  with  the  provveditore  and  subordinate  to  him 
was  the  admiral  whose  title  was  one  of  courtesy  rather  than 
function  for  he  was  an  artisan;  however,  he  was  an  artisan 
of  great  skill  and  of  high  intelligence,  and  he  was  given  the 
greatest  authority.  He  superintended  the  works  and  had 
direction  over  the  building-yards,  and  enjoyed  many  much- 
envied  privileges.  On  ceremonial  occasions,  he  wore  a  state 
costume  that  gave  him  almost  the  appearance  of  a  noble:  his 
robe  was  of  red  satin  over  which  was  a  vestment  that  fell  to 
the  knees  and  on  his  head  he  wore  a  violet  damask  cap  orna- 
mented with  a  gold  cord  and  large  tassels. 

At  great  public  festivals  and  when  the  Doge,  the  Senate 
or  visiting  sovereigns  paid  a  visit  to  the  arsenal,  the  admiral 


252  VENICE 

occupied  the  place  of  honour,  and  always  conducted  the  dis- 
tinguished visitors  to  the  docks  which  were  his  special  domain. 
On  the  day  of  the  Sensa,  when  the  Doge,  accompanied  by  the 
Council  and  the  ambassadors,  went  with  great  pomp  on  board 
the  Bucentaur,  to  wed  the  Adriatic,  the  admiral  served  as 
pilot.  He  was  held  responsible  for  bringing  the  Signory 
back  safely  to  shore,  and  had  the  power,  if  the  weather  was 
threatening,  of  commanding  that  they  remain  in  the  lagoons 
without  venturing  into  more  dangerous  waters. 

The  arsenal  comprised  three  divisions:  for  ship-building, 
small  arms  and  artillery.  The  Venetians  surpassed  all 
people  of  their  day  in  construction  and  this  superiority  was 
attributed  to  two  causes:  the  skill  of  the  workmen  and  the 
quality  of  the  timber  they  used.  They  adopted  the  plan  of 
placing  the  administration  of  the  forests  under  the  naval  de- 
partment, and  all  other  purposes  for  which  timber  is  used, 
such  as  the  building  of  houses,  fuel,  etc.,  were  made  sub- 
ordinate. Timber  was  bought  in  the  province  of  Treviso, 
in  Friuli,  in  Carniola,  in  Istria  and  Dalmatia;  but  these 
provinces  did  not  supply  enough  and  they  had  to  go  to 
Albania  and  Germany  as  well.  The  timber,  after  being 
measured  and  stamped,  was  cut  into  solid  beams  and  floated 
in  the  Adriatic  near  the  Lido,  where  it  was  kept  seasoning 
for  ten  years  before  it  was  used. 

The  different  pieces  of  which  a  galley  was  constructed  were 
prepared  in  the  workshops  ready  to  be  put  together,  and  the 
skill  was  such  in  the  arsenal  that,  on  the  day  that  King 
Henry  III.  of  France  visited  the  arsenal  (1574),  while  he 


THE  ARSENAL  253 

was  attending  a  banquet  in  the  Great  Hall  in  two  hours  a 
galley  was  put  together  and  launched.  It  goes  without  say- 
ing that  this  was  a  prodigious  feat,  and  that  the  governors 
would  scarcely  have  entrusted  the  life  of  the  Doge  in  it ;  but 
it  was  a  means  of  demonstrating  the  powerful  means  of 
execution  that  they  possessed.  In  times  of  political  crises  the 
activity  here  baffles  imagination,  and  when  the  famous  League 
was  crowned  by  the  victory  of  Lepanto,  every  morning  for 
five  successive  days  a  new  galley  left  the  arsenal.  To  give  an 
idea  of  the  means  employed  to  secure  this  degree  of  efficiency 
let  us  take  one  authentic  detail:  the  State  laid  a  permanent 
requisition  on  all  crops  of  hemp  grown  upon  its  territories, 
and  opened  special  storehouses  for  its  sale,  to  which  all  pur- 
chasers were  compelled  to  go  to  buy  what  they  needed,  at  a 
price  regulated  by  law,  after  the  government  had  appropriated 
sufficient  for  its  own  needs.  Hence  arose  the  superior  quality 
of  the  Venetian  cordage  over  that  of  any  other  navy. 

The  armoury  included  the  arming  of  the  galleys,  the  man- 
ufacture, preservation  and  repairing  of  small  arms,  and,  as 
in  our  modern  arsenals,  supplying  the  troops. 

The  artillery  comprised  the  foundries,  the  training-school 
and  parks  for  the  gunners, — all  under  the  superintendence  of 
the  provveditore.  In  the  Sixteenth  Century,  the  foundries 
were  under  the  direction  of  the  famous  brothers  Alberghetti, 
who  formed  a  regular  school  of  cannon-foundry;  artists  like 
these  impressed  their  own  stamp  on  every  piece  that  went 
forth,  and  thus  it  is  that  whenever  one  finds  a  gun  of 
Venetian  make  in  any  of  the  artillery  museums  and  collec- 


254  VENICE 

tions  in  Europe,  it  is  almost  always  a  masterpiece,  not  only 
of  casting  but  of  design.  In  addition  to  these  branches, 
there  was  a  superintendent  of  military  machines  who  was  re- 
quired to  keep  himself  informed  regarding  all  the  inventions 
belonging  to  warfare. 


THE  DOGE 

WILLIAM  CAREW  HAZLITT 

THE  first  duty  of  the  Doge  on  rising  was  attendance 
at  the  service  of  Mass,  which  was  performed  every 
morning  in  his  own  private  chapel;  and  he  after- 
wards proceeded  to  apply  his  attention  to  his  magisterial 
functions.  Accompanied  by  his  notary,  he  either  presided 
over  his  own  Court  at  the  Palace,  or,  if  no  cases  of  impor- 
tance happened  to  be  pending  there,  he  was  present  at  the 
sittings  of  one  of  the  other  tribunals,  or  of  the  Common 
Pleas,  which  used  to  be  held  like  that  of  the  Romans  and 
Lombards,  under  the  open  sky.  We  casually  glean  that,  at 
the  beginning  of  the  Thirteenth  Century,  Friday  was  the  day 
for  presenting  petitions  and  appeals.  The  Doge  undoubtedly 
possessed  the  power  of  reversing  all  decisions,  and  it  vested  in 
him  down  to  the  Twelfth  Century  to  pay  as  well  as  appoint 
the  judges  of  his  own  Court,  to  each  of  whom  his  Serenity 
was  expected  to  send  annually  four  casks  of  wine  as  a  free 
gift  from  the  vineyards  of  Comanzo  in  Chioggia. 

From  time  to  time  he  was  in  the  habit  of  paying  a  visit  of 
inspection  and  inquiry  to  the  several  islands  which  lay 
around  the  capital,  in  order  that  he  might  be  in  a  position  to 
check  abuses,  and  to  prevent  any  arbitrary  stretches  of  power 
on  the  part  of  the  Tribunes  and  other  subordinate  members 
of  the  Government.  Occasionally  it  was  his  practice  to 
255 


256  VENICE 

show  himself  formally  in  public,  and  to  give  his  benediction 
to  the  assembled  people;  and  when  it  happened  that  the  ful- 
filment of  his  multifarious  avocations  admitted  relaxation 
and  mental  repose,  his  Serenity  sometimes  took  gondola  and 
followed  the  chase  in  the  woods  of  Loredo. 

Even  when  the  archaic  Palace  Court  had  given  way  to 
that  of  the  Judges  of  the  Commune,  the  Doge  was  held  to  be 
the  Fountain  and  Mirror  of  Justice;  and  not  only  was  any 
question,  which  a  Judge  might  feel  himself  incompetent  to 
decide,  referable  in  the  last  resort  to  the  Throne,  but  in  all 
instances,  where  a  suitor  or  a  prisoner  might  have  reasonable 
grounds  for  disputing  a  judicial  award,  a  right  of  appeal  lay 
in  the  same  quarter. 

Even  in  primitive  times  the  ducal  costume  was  not  without 
some  share  of  splendour.  The  Berretta  (beretum]  or  Bon- 
net, of  the  original  type  of  which  we  know  nothing,  but 
which  seems  at  a  tolerably  early  date  to  have  borne  some  re- 
semblance to  the  diadem  of  the  kings  of  ancient  Phrygia,  was 
a  high  cap  of  conical  form,  set  with  pearls,1  not  unsimilar 
to  the  Episcopal  mitre  and  to  the  headdresses  seen  on  Orien- 
tal coins  and  paintings. 

The  tradition,  which  ascribes  to  the  munificence  of  the 
contemporary  Abbess  of  San  Zaccaria  the  presentation  of  a 
jewelled  headdress  to  the  Doge  Tradonico  (863-864),  is 
suspected  of  being  apocryphal;  and  assuredly  it  is  so  in 

1  The  berretta  was  at  last  made  so  weighty  that  the  Doge  seldom 
wore  it.  Towards  the  middle  of  the  Fourteenth  Century,  the  Pro- 
curators of  Saint  Mark  were  charged  to  remedy  this  evil. 


THE  DOGE  257 

respect  to  the  details.  The  Lady  Superior  may  have  made 
an  offering  of  some  ornamental  bonnet,  manufactured  in  the 
house,  more  or  less  on  the  model  of  that  then  worn  by 
the  head  of  the  State;  but  the  earliest  tangible  vestige  of 
the  corno  is  the  mosaic  at  Saint  Mark's  attributed  to  the 
Eleventh  or  Twelfth  Century,  and  the  apparent  prototype  of 
the  later  berretta,  which  is  mentioned  in  132833  supplied  at 
the  cost  of  the  Commune,  but  does  not  present  itself  anterior 
to  that  date  in  any  authentic  document  or  passage.  The 
spirit  and  tone  of  the  Ducal  attire  strike  us  as  half  Lom- 
bardic  or  Prankish,  half  Oriental;  the  oblation  of  the 
Abbess  was  in  the  taste  of  the  age;  and  it  was  doubtless 
simpler  even  than  that  delineated  on  the  sculpture  above- 
mentioned.  The  strict  regulations  imposed  on  every  depart- 
ment and  member  of  the  Executive  extended  to  the  ducal 
bonnet,  for,  according  to  the  Coronation  Oath  of  1328,  it  was 
to  be  lodged  under  the  care  of  the  Procurators  of  Saint  Mark, 
and  only  to  be  delivered  to  the  Doge  for  use  on  special  oc- 
casions ;  and  the  motive  for  this  caution  is  to  be  found  in  the 
more  sumptuous  form  and  embellishments  which  the  bonnet 
gradually  received,  and  the  apprehension  of  dishonest  prac- 
tices by  minor  officials  or  attendants. 

On  the  exceedingly  rare  occasion  when  the  Dogaressa  was 
also  crowned,  a  second  berretta  was  provided;  but  after  the 
death  of  Silvestro  Valier  in  1700  there  was  a  twofold  provi- 
sion that  the  consort  was  not  again  to  receive  this  honour,  and 
that  it  was  not  to  be  worn  by  the  relict  of  a  deceased  Doge. 

Underneath  it,  after  a  time,  the  chief  magistrate  wore  a 


258  VENICE 

white  linen  coif,  in  order  that,  as  a  mark  of  the  peculiarly 
exalted  dignity  of  his  office,  his  head  might  remain  covered 
when  the  bonnet  itself  was  removed.  When  the  Grand 
Council  had  been  instituted,  and  the  election  of  the  Doge 
rested  with  it,  it  became  a  practice  for  the  new  Serenissimo 
to  doff  the  berretta  in  returning  thanks  for  the  honour  con- 
ferred, and  on  one  occasion,  when  the  Doge  Morosini  was  in 
1693  appointed  captain-general  in  the  Morea,  he  rose  from 
his  place  and  uncovered,  while  he  signified  his  acceptance  of 
the  trust,  and  his  resolution  to  serve  his  country  to  the  best  of 
his  power.  In  the  case  of  high  official  functionaries  the  Doge 
touched  hands;  but  otherwise  he  at  certain  public  receptions 
extended  his  hand  to  be  kissed. 

A  doublet  of  red  velvet,  with  straight  sleeves  tapering  to- 
ward the  wrist,  and  a  high  collar,  was  in  part  hidden  by  an 
outer  mantle,  sometimes  curiously  figured,  which  descended 
almost  to  the  feet,  with  a  border  of  gold  fringe  and  a  small 
circular  clasp  of  gold.  A  sable  cape,  red  stockings  and  shoes 
of  a  somewhat  primitive  pattern  completed  his  attire ;  and  it 
transpires  in  connection  with  a  historical  episode  of  1071 
that  the  Doge  was  accustomed  out-of-doors  to  use  sandals, 
probably  as  a  protection  against  the  mire  in  the  public  ways 
in  wet  weather.  In  the  drawing,  from  which  the  present 
description  is  borrowed,  the  hands  are  not  gloved. 

The  Bucentaur  is  cited,  as  if  it  were  hardly  then  a  novelty, 
in  the  Coronation  Oath  of  1328,  and  is  there  said  to  be  one 
of  the  accessories  furnished  by  the  State  as  a  means  of  aug- 
menting the  ducal  dignity.  No  particulars  are  given,  and 


THE  DOGE  259 

possibly,  if  the  vessel  already  existed,  none  were  thought  to  be 
requisite.  Nor  is  any  help  forthcoming  toward  a  solution  of 
the  name,  which  some  have  connected  with  the  Virgilian 
Centaurus,  of  which  the  figure  of  a  centaur  may  be  supposed 
to  have  adorned  the  prow.  But  in  1205,  when  the  newly 
elected  Doge  was  to  be  fetched  from  his  official  post  at  a 
distance,  a  feeling  of  the  propriety  of  some  special  mark  of 
respect  showed  itself  in  the  embellishment  of  the  sides  of 
the  galley  despatched  to  the  Serenissimo  with  silk  taffeta 
hangings. 

John  Evelyn  visited  the  Arsenal  in  1646,  and  saw  the 
Bucentaur,  of  which  he  speaks  as  having  an  ample  deck  so 
contrived  that  the  galley  slaves  are  not  visible,  and  on  the 
poop  a  throne  for  the  Doge,  when  he  went  to  espouse  the 
Adriatic. 

The  last  State-barge  constructed  for  the  use  of  the  Doge 
wTas  launched  in  1729.  It  was  100  feet  in  length,  21  in 
breadth,  with  an  upper  and  a  lower  deck,  of  which  the  latter 
was  reserved  for  the  oarsmen.  At  the  extremity  towards  the 
poop  on  the  superior  deck,  which  was  covered,  near  the 
raised  seat  allotted  to  the  Doge,  was  a  small  window,  through 
which  his  Serenity  threw  the  ring,  when  he  wedded  the 
Adriatic  in  the  name  of  the  Republic;  and  forty-eight  others 
were  placed  along  the  sides  to  enable  the  company  to  enjoy 
the  spectacle  before  and  around  them.  The  fittings  and 
furniture  of  the  vessel  were  luxurious,  and  it  was  adorned 
with  symbolical  figures,  bas-reliefs,  and  other  representations 
within  and  without,  set  off  by  elaborate  gilding. 


260  .VENICE 

The  lady  who  published  the  account  of  the  religious  and 
other  festivals  of  the  Republic,  Giustina  Renier  Michiel, 
scion  of  two  noble  and  ancient  houses,  beheld  the  last  Bucen- 
taur,  before  it  was  brutally  destroyed  by  the  French  in  con- 
junction with  some  Venetian  adventurers  for  the  sake  of  the 
gilt  work. 

"Alas!"  she  writes,  "I  myself  saw  Frenchmen  and 
Venetians,  full  of  derision  and  insult,  combine  to  dis- 
mantle the  Bucintoro  and  burn  it  for  the  gold  upon  it.  .  . 
It  was  in  the  form  of  a  galley,  and  two  hundred  feet  long 
(sic)  with  two  decks.  The  first  of  these  was  occupied  by  a 
hundred  and  sixty  rowers,  the  handsomest  and  strongest  of 
the  fleet,  who  sat  four  men  to  each  oar,  and  there  awaited 
their  orders;  forty  other  sailors  completed  the  crew,  the 
upper  deck  was  divided  lengthwise  by  a  partition,  pierced 
with  arched  doorways,  ornamented  with  gilded  figures,  and 
covered  with  a  roof  supported  by  caryatides — the  whole  sur- 
mounted by  a  canopy  of  crimson  velvet  embroidered  with 
gold.  Under  this  were  ninety  seats,  and  at  the  stern  a  still 
richer  chamber  for  the  Doge's  throne,  over  which  drooped 
the  banner  of  Saint  Mark.  The  prow  was  double-beaked, 
and  the  sides  of  the  vessel  were  enriched  with  figures  of 
Justice,  Peace,  Sea,  Land,  and  other  allegories  and 
ornaments."1 

The  yearly  marriage  of  the  Adriatic  was  more  immediately 
and  palpably  a  pageant  and  a  symbol;  but  it  has  been  ren- 
dered apparent  that  the  ceremony  involved  and  denoted  a 
'Howells's  Venetian  Life  (1883). 


THE  DOGE  261 

political  principle,  on  which  the  Republic  was  prepared,  nearly 
down  to  the  last,  to  insist  at  all  hazards  against  all  comers. 
Germany,  France,  Spain,  England,  were  in  turn  reminded 
of  the  claim  ,vhich  the  unique  wedding  imported,  in  language 
which  could  not  be  misunderstood. 


TOMBS  OF  THE  DOGES 

HIPPOLYTE  ADOLPHE  TAINE 

THE  gondola  plunges  northwards  into  the  deserted 
lanes.  The  reflections  in  the  water  tremble  in 
the  concave  arches  of  the  bridges  like  a  rose,  white 
and  green  branched  drapery  of  silk.  We  leave  the  city;  it 
is  noon  and  the  sky  is  of  a  burning  whiteness.  Stranded 
rafts  extend  their  wet  and  shining  logs  over  the  plain  of  mo- 
tionless water.  Facing  us  is  an  island  surrounded  by  walls, 
the  cemetery,  that  overpowers  the  fiery  whiteness  with  its  own 
crude  whites.  Further  on,  two  or  three  sails  flit  into  the 
channels;  on  the  horizon,  the  vaporous  chain  of  mountains 
traces  its  fringe  of  snow  on  the  sky.  The  toothed  prow  rises 
out  of  the  water  like  a  strange  fish  swimming  tail  foremost, 
and  its  black  form  pierces  and  presses  on  and  on  through  in- 
numerable scintillations  of  little  gilded  waves  amid  the  deep 
silence. 

On  an  open  square  rises  the  equestrian  statue  of  Colleoni, 
the  second  one  that  was  cast  in  Italy,  a  true  portrait  like  that 
of  Gattamelata  in  Padua,  a  real  portrait  of  a  condottiere 
sitting  on  his  stout  war-horse,  in  his  cuirass,  with  legs  wide 
apart,  the  bust  too  short,  a  coarse  face  of  a  soldier  who  com- 
mands and  shouts,  not  at  all  embellished  but  taken  from  life, 
and  full  of  energy.  In  front  is  San  Giovanni  e  Paolo,  a 
969 


TOMBS   OF   THE  DOGES       263 

Gothic  church,  Italo-Gothic,  and  consequently  gay.  The 
round  pillars,  the  wide  and  expansive  arches  and  the  almost 
white  windows  do  away  with  all  the  funereal  and  mystic  ideas 
that  are  suggested  by  the  cathedrals  of  the  North.  Like  the 
Campo  Santo  at  Pisa,  and  Santa  Croce  at  Florence,  this 
church  is  peopled  with  tombs:  add  to  them  those  in  the 
Frari,  and  you  have  the  mausoleum  of  the  Republic.  The 
majority  date  from  the  Fifteenth,  or  the  early  part  of  the  Six- 
teenth Century,  the  brilliant  age  of  the  city,  the  days  when 
the  great  men  and  great  actions  that  had  passed  away  were 
still  of  sufficiently  recent  date  for  the  new  rising  art  to  catch 
their  image  and  express  its  sincerity.  Others  show  the  dawn 
of  that  great  light;  and  still  others  show  its  decline;  and 
thus,  through  a  row  of  sepulchres,  we  can  follow  the  history 
of  human  genius  from  its  blossoming,  through  its  virility  to 
its  decadence. 

In  the  monument  of  Doge  Morosini,  who  died  in  1382, 
the  pure  Gothic  style  flowers  in  all  its  elegance.  A  flowered 
arcade  festoons  its  lacework  above  the  dead.  On  either  side 
rises  a  charming  little  turret  supported  by  a  small  column 
ornamented  with  trefoils,  embroidered  with  little  figures, 
bristling  with  steeples  and  bell-turrets,  a  kind  of  delicate 
vegetation  in  which  the  marble  bristles  and  unfolds  like  a 
spiky  plant  that  puts  forth  its  prickles  and  flowers  both 
together.  The  Doge  sleeps  with  his  hands  crossed  upon  his 
breast.  Here  we  have  real  mortuary  monuments:  an  alcove 
sometimes  with  its  canopy  or  curtain;  a  marble  bed  carved 
and  ornamented  like  the  wooden  frame  on  which  the  ancient 


264  VENICE 

limbs  of  the  man  reposed  at  night  when  alive;  and  inside,  the 
man  in  his  ordinary  robes,  calm  in  sleep,  confident  and  pious 
because  he  acquitted  himself  well  in  life;  a  true  effigy  with- 
out over  emphasis  or  anguish,  one  that  leaves  with  the  sur- 
vivors the  grave  and  peaceful  image  that  their  memories 
should  retain. 

That  is  the  seriousness  of  the  Middle  Ages.  However, 
beneath  the  religious  severity  we  already  see  the  dawn  of  the 
feeling  for  living  corporeal  forms  that  is  to  be  the  special 
discovery  of  the  following  century.  In  the  mausoleum  of 
the  Doge  Marco  Corner,  between  the  five  ogival  arcades 
with  trefoil  carved  work  topped  with  delicate  spires,  the 
Virtues,  joyous  long-robed  angels,  look  at  us  with  spontaneous 
and  striking  expressiveness.  In  this  dawn  of  discovery 
the  artist  naively  risked  airs  and  physiognomies  that  later 
masters  rejected  for  the  sake  of  dignity  and  obedience  to  rules. 
In  this  respect,  the  Renaissance,  which  reduced  Art  to  Classic 
nobility,  really  lessened  it,  just  as  the  purists  of  our  Seven- 
teenth Century  impoverished  the  rich  language  of  the  Six- 
teenth. 

As  we  advance,  we  see  some  feature  of  the  new  art  con- 
stantly unfolding.  In  the  tomb  of  Doge  Antonio  Vernier 
(d.  1400),  the  paganism  of  the  Renaissance  shows  itself  in 
one  detail  of  the  ornamentation, — the  shell  niches.  All  the 
rest  is  still  angular,  flowery,  delicately  chiselled  and  Gothic, 
the  sculpture  as  well  as  the  architecture.  The  heads,  how- 
ever, are  somewhat  heavy  and  awkward,  too  short  and  some- 
times carried  by  a  wry  neck.  Artists  copy  the  real:  they 


TOMBS   OF   THE  DOGES        265 

have  not  yet  made  a  final  choice  of  proportions,  they  do  not 
know  the  canon  of  Greek  statuaries,  they  are  still  plunged 
in  observation  and  in  the  imitation  of  life ;  but  their  mistakes 
are  delightful.  The  Madonna  whose  neck  is  bent  too  much 
clasps  her  son  with  such  lively  tenderness!  There  is  so 
much  goodness  and  candour  in  those  rather  too  round 
maidens'  heads.  The  Five  Virgins  in  their  shell  niches  have 
such  a  penetrating  youthful  freshness  and  truth!  Nothing 
touches  me  so  much  as  these  sculptures  which  mark  the  close 
of  Mediaeval  art. 

All  these  works  are  inventive,  national,  sometimes  even 
bourgeoises  if  you  like,  but  they  have  an  incomparable 
vitality.  The  dazzling  and  overwhelming  domination 
of  Classical  beauty  had  by  no  means  come  to  discipline 
the  enthusiasm  of  original  genuises;  there  were  provincial 
schools  of  art  that  were  accommodated  to  the  climate,  the 
country  and  the  whole  condition  of  affairs  about  them,  free 
as  yet  from  academies  and  capitals.  Nothing  in  the  world 
comes  up  to  the  real  originality,  the  intimate  and  full  senti- 
ment and  the  entire  soul  imprinted  on  a  work:  then  the  work 
is  as  individual  and  as  rich  in  shadings  as  the  soul  itself.  One 
believes  in  it ;  the  marble  becomes  a  sort  of  journal  in  which 
are  put  all  the  confidences  of  a  human  life. 

If  we  take  a  few  steps  forward  in  the  course  of  the  age,  we 
notice  a  gradual  diminution  in  this  simplicity  and  naivete 
in  art.  The  mortuary  monument  changes  into  one  of  heroic 
pomp.  Round  arcades  extend  their  noble  span  above  the 
dead.  Arabesques  gaily  run  around  the  polished  borders. 


266  VENICE 

Columns  stand  in  rows  with  blooming  acanthus  capitals; 
sometimes  they  rise  in  stages  one  above  another,  and  the  Four 
Orders  of  architecture  reveal  their  variety  for  the  delight  of 
the  eyes.  The  tomb  then  becomes  a  colossal  triumphal  arch  ; 
some  tombs  have  twenty  statues  of  almost  life  size.  The 
idea  of  death  disappears ;  the  defunct  no  longer  lies  awaiting 
the  resurrection  and  the  last  day,  he  sits  and  looks;  he  "  lives 
again  "  in  the  marble,  as  one  epitaph  ambitiously  says.  Simi- 
larly, statues  that  adorn  his  memorial  are  gradually  trans- 
formed. In  the  middle  of  the  Fifteenth  Century,  they  are 
still  very  frequently  stiff  and  constrained;  the  legs  of  the 
youthful  warriors  are  somewhat  slender,  like  those  of  Peru- 
gino's  archangels;  they  are  covered  with  lion-head  boots 
and  leggings  in  which  are  mingled  reminiscences  of  feudal 
armour  and  admiration  of  antique  costume.  Both  bodies 
and  heads  border  on  the  real ;  the  excellence  of  the  faces  con- 
sists in  their  involuntary  seriousness,  their  intense  and  simple 
expression,  the  force  of  their  attitude  and  their  fixed  and 
profound  gaze.  On  the  approach  of  the  Sixteenth  Century, 
ease  and  movement  come  to  them.  The  draperies  twine  and 
fall  grandly  around  robust  bodies.  The  muscles  rise  and  dis- 
play themselves.  The  young  knights  of  the  Middle  Ages 
are  now  athletes.  The  virgins,  motionless  and  hooded  in 
their  severe  mantles,  begin  to  smile  and  grow  animated. 
Their  Greek  robes,  creased  and  falling,  leave  bare  their 
breasts  and  the  slender  form  of  their  charming  feet.  Leaning 
forwards,  half  turned  backwards,  bending  from  one  hip, 
standing  proudly  erect  and  thoughtful,  they  reveal  beneath 


TOMBS   OF   THE  DOGES        267 

their  winding  draperies  the  diversities  of  the  living  form;  and 
the  eyes  follow  the  harmonious  curves  of  the  beautiful  human 
animal  that  in  repose,  in  motion,  and  in  every  attitude  has 
only  to  live  in  order  to  be  happy  and  perfect. 

Nowhere  are  they  more  beautiful  than  on  the  tomb  of 
Doge  Vendramini  (d.  1470).  There  art  is  still  simple  and 
in  its  first  blossom ;  the  old  gravity  still  exists  in  its  entirety ; 
but  the  taste  for  poetry  and  the  picturesque  which  is  just 
dawning  already  suffuses  it  with  its  richness  and  splendour. 
Under  arcades  with  golden  flowers,  and  in  the  spaces  of  a 
Corinthian  colonnade,  warriors  and  women  draped  after  the 
antique  gaze  or  weep.  They  are  not  restless,  they  do  not  at- 
tempt to  attract  attention ;  and  their  restrained  expression  is 
all  the  stronger  for  it.  It  is  their  entire  body,  it  is  their  type 
and  their  structure,  it  is  their  vigorous  necks,  their  ample  and 
magnificent  hair,  and  their  direct  faces  that  speak.  One 
woman  sadly  raises  her  eyes  to  Heaven ;  another,  half  turning 
away,  utters  a  cry.  You  would  say  they  were  by  Giovanni 
Bellini.  They  belong  to  that  strong  and  limited  age  when 
the  model,  like  the  artist,  reduced  to  five  or  six  energetic 
feelings,  conveys  them  through  his  intact  sensibility,  and  in 
one  effort  concentrates  complete  faculties  which  later  will  be 
deadened  by  indulgence  and  wasted  on  details. 

With  the  Sixteenth  Century,  all  the  great  passions  come 
to  an  end.  Tombs  become  great  operatic  machines.  That 
of  Doge  Pesaro  (d.  1669),  is  nothing  but  a  gigantic  court 
decoration  rearing  its  emphatic  pile  of  luxury.  Four  negroes 
clothed  in  white  and  kneeling  on  cushions  support  the  second 


268  VENICE 

tier  and  their  black  faces  grin  above  their  porters'  bodies; 
between  them,  as  a  gross  contrast,  parades  a  skeleton.  As  for 
the  Doge,  he  throws  himself  back  with  the  importance  of  a 
great  lord  reproving  clowns.  Chimeras  crouch  at  his  feet,  a 
canopy  is  over  his  head,  and  on  both  sides  groups  of  statues 
stand  in  declamatory  or  sentimental  attitudes.  Elsewhere, 
in  the  tomb  of  Doge  Valier  (d.  1656),  we  see  art  abandon 
bombast  for  mere  prettiness.  The  mortuary  alcove  envelops 
itself  in  a  vast  yellow  marble  curtain  figured  with  flowers 
and  held  up  by  a  number  of  little  nude  angels  as  playful  as 
Cupids.  The  Doge  has  the  dignity  of  a  magistrate;  and  his 
wife,  frizzled,  wrinkled  and  dressed  in  flowing  materials, 
delicately  holds  up  her  left  hand  with  the  air  of  a  dowager. 
Lower  down,  a  pier-glass  Victory  crowns  the  good  old  man 
who  looks  related  to  Belisarius;  and,  all  around,  bas-reliefs 
show  groups  of  gracious  and  delicate  women  with  drawing- 
room  manners. 

All  this  is  spoiled  art,  but  still  it  is  art;  I  mean  that  the 
sculptor  and  his  contemporaries  have  a  real  and  individual 
taste,  that  they  love  certain  things  in  their  world  and  their 
life,  that  they  imitated  and  embellished  them,  that  their  pref- 
erences are  not  an  academy  affair,  a  work  of  education,  a 
bookish  pedantry,  nor  a  conventional  preference.  There  is 
nothing  else  in  our  century.  By  its  coldness,  insipidity  and 
laboriousness,  Canova's  tomb,  executed  according  to  his  own 
plans,  is  ridiculous:  a  great  pyramid  of  white  marble  oc- 
cupies the  entire  field  of  vision;  the  door  is  open,  there  it  is 
that  he  desires  to  rest,  like  a  Pharaoh  in  his  sepulchre.  To- 


TOMBS   OF   THE  DOGES        269 

wards  the  door  advances  a  procession  of  sentimental  figures. 
Atlas,  Eudoras  and  Cymodoceas,  a  nude  sleeping  genius 
extinguishing  his  torch,  another  one  sighing  with  head  ten- 
derly bent  like  Bitaube's  young  Joseph.  A  winged  lion 
weeps  despairingly  with  his  snout  on  his  paws  and  his  paws 
on  a  book:  it  would  take  a  college  professor  twenty  minutes 
to  comment  on  this  allegorical  drama.  Close  by,  poor  Titian 
has  had  inflicted  upon  him  a  tomb  like  a  portico,  scraped  and 
shining  like  an  Empire  clock,  adorned  with  four  pretty,  pen- 
sive, spiritualistic  women,  two  poor  expressive  old  men  with 
sharp  and  salient  muscles,  and  two  young  winged  heads 
wearing  crowns.  One  would  say  that  these  artists  are  void 
of  any  proper  impression,  that  they  have  nothing  to  say  for 
themselves,  that  the  human  body  speaks  to  them  no  longer, 
that  they  have  been  reduced  to  hunt  in  their  portfolios  for  the 
assistance  of  lines,  and  that  their  whole  talent  consists  in 
making  up  an  interesting  charade  according  to  the  last  sym- 
bolic and  aesthetic  text-book.  Death  is  something,  however, 
and  it  seems  well  that  one  should  be  able  to  have  something 
of  one's  own  to  say  about  it  without  a  book;  but  I  begin  to 
think  that  we  no  longer  have  any  ideas  about  it  any  more 
than  we  have  of  any  other  important  matter.  We  drive  it 
out  of  our  minds  as  though  it  were  an  unwelcome  guest: 
when  we  follow  a  funeral,  it  is  only  for  decency's  sake,  and 
we  pass  the  time  talking  to  our  neighbour  about  business  or 
literature.  Art  lives  on  great  determinations,  just  as  criticism 
lives  on  nice  distinctions,  that  is  why  we  are  not  artists  but 
critics. 


270  VENICE 

The  same  idea  recurs  when  we  look  at  the  paintings. 
There  are  some  admirable  ones  in  a  chapel  of  the  church 
dedicated  to  the  Holy  Rosary.  One  by  Titian  is  the  Martyr- 
dom of  St.  Peter  of  Verona.  Domenichino  has  repeated  the 
same  subject  at  Bologna;  but  an  ignoble  fear  disfigures  his 
personages.  Titian's  are  grand,  like  fighters.  What  struck 
him  was  not  grimacing  or  suffering  expression  of  a  convulsed 
visage  but  the  strong  action  of  a  murder,  the  stretch  of  a 
striking  arm,  the  agitated  draperies  of  a  running  fugitive, 
the  magnificent  spring  of  trees  stretching  out  their  sombre 
branches  above  blood  and  armour.  Still  more  vehement  is  a 
crucifixion  by  Tintoret.  In  this  all  is  movement  and  dis- 
order; the  poetry  of  light  and  shadow  fills  the  air  with 
dazzling  and  lugubrious  contrasts.  A  shaft  of  yellow  light 
falls  across  the  nude  Christ  who  looks  like  a  glorified  corpse. 
Above  him,  heads  of  holy  women  float  in  a  stream  of  splendid 
atmosphere,  and  the  body  of  the  impenitent  thief,  savage  and 
writhing  embosses  the  sky  with  its  ruddy  muscular  frame. 
In  that  tempest  of  troubled  and  intense  light,  it  seems  as  if 
the  crosses  are  swaying  and  the  executed  men  are  about  to  fall ; 
as  a  climax  to  the  poignant  emotion  and  grandiose  disorder, 
in  the  background  we  see  under  a  luminous  cloud  a  heap  of 
resuscitated  bodies.  The  whole  of  the  walls  is  covered  with 
similar  paintings  by  the  same  hand.  Christ  rises  to  Heaven 
and  around  Him  great  nude  angels  darting  through  space 
are  furiously  sounding  their  trumpets.  The  Virgin  is 
carried  off  by  an  impetuous  throng  of  little  angels  whilst 
below  her  the  apostles  are  crying  and  falling  down.  On 


TOMBS   OF   THE  DOGES       271 

every  side  and  in  every  picture  light  vibrates;  there  is  not 
an  atom  of  air  that  does  not  palpitate,  and  life  is  so  over- 
flowing that  it  breathes  and  swarms  in  the  trees,  stones, 
ground  and  clouds,  in  every  colour  and  every  form,  in  the 
universal  fever  of  inanimate  nature. 


WEALTH  AND   INDUSTRIES  OF  OLD 
VENICE 

WILLIAM  B.  SCOTT 

IN  the  midsummer  of  the  city's  history — about  1500, 
we  shall  say,  which  is  rather  later  than  its  meridian — 
it  must  have  offered  as  perfect  a  theatre  for  the  sensuous 
enjoyment  of  life  as  any  city  in  any  time  has  done,  and  thus 
it  is  that  the  Art  in  its  highest  development,  in  the  hands  of 
Titian,  Giorgione  and  Paul  Veronese,  corresponds  with  and 
expresses  not  an  enervated  nor  a  relaxed  condition  of  the 
mental  powers  by  any  means — that  comes  afterwards — but  a 
life  of  exertion,  all  the  vital  forces  strong,  sensuous  gratifica- 
tion and  pleasure  being  servants,  not  masters,  and  success  fol- 
lowing invariably  the  clearly-understood  motive  of  self- 
aggrandisement. 

For  three  centuries  before  this,  war  as  well  as  trade  had 
gradually  made  Venice  the  richest  city  in  the  world.  In  no 
Italian  war,  intestine  or  foreign,  throughout  the  entire  his- 
tory of  the  various  States  of  that  country,  must  we  look  for 
honour  or  justice.  The  leaders  were  as  leaders  are  now, 
showing  noble  qualities  of  self-devotion,  bravery  and  fidelity ; 
but  we  speak  of  the  motives  and  reasons  for  Italian  wars,  and 
those  of  Venice  are  conspicuous  for  being  wars  of  plunder  or 
of  destruction,  rapacity  and  jealousy  being  the  motives.  The 
greatest  early  accession  to  the  wealth  of  the  "  City  of  the  Sea  " 
was  on  the  taking  of  Constantinople  by  the  allied  Crusaders 
272 


WEALTH  OF  OLD  VENICE     273 

in  1206,  when  the  submission  of  the  metropolis,  intimated  by 
the  crowd  of  priests  and  women  bearing  the  cross  and  ap- 
pealing to  the  barons  as  to  brethren,  was  followed  by  such 
excesses  and  monstrosities  of  cruelty,  that  we  hesitate  to 
believe  in  their  history;  and  the  value  of  the  pillage  seems 
almost,  even  at  this  day,  equally  incredible.  In  the  palaces 
of  Bucoleon  and  Blachernae  the  accumulations  of  centuries, 
collected  from  all  parts  of  the  known  world,  were  seized, 
and  in  the  churches  also — the  difference  between  the  creeds 
of  the  East  and  West  making  sacrilege  a  virtue.  At  that 
time,  silks,  furs,  tapestries,  porcelain,  glass,  and  the  arts  of 
the  finest  metal-work,  as  well  as  the  Fine  Arts  of  painting, 
enamel,  and  mosaic,  were  all  Oriental;  and  the  portion  that 
fell  to  the  share  of  Venice,  estimated  by  Gibbon  at  a  sum 
about  equal  to  ten  years  of  the  then  revenue  of  England, 
must  have  contributed  largely  to  make  it  what  it  shortly 
afterwards  became — the  most  skilful  of  all  the  cities  of  the 
West  in  certain  luxurious  manufactures.  Villehardouin, 
quoted  in  Smedley's  able  little  book,  Sketches  of  Vene- 
tian Historian,  says:  "It  is  my  belief  that  the  plunder  of 
this  city  exceeded  all  that  had  been  witnessed  since  the 
creation  of  the  world."  Gold  and  silver  in  every  form, 
vases  for  every  use  which  the  caprice  of  luxury  could  suggest, 
and  of  more  various  names  than  we  can  hope  to  translate 
with  accuracy — those  now  unknown  myrrshines,  which  Pom- 
pey  had  won  in  his  triumphs  over  Mithridates  and  Tigranes; 
gems  wrought  into  festal  cups,  among  which  the  least  precious 
were  framed  of  turquoise,  jasper,  or  amethyst;  jewels  which 


274  VENICE 

the  affection  or  the  pride  of  Oriental  despots  was  wont  to 
deck  their  imperial  brides;  crowns  of  solid  gold  crusted  with 
pearls;  rings  and  fibula  set  with  fabulous  or  world-famous 
diamonds,  unnumbered  jacinths,  emeralds,  sapphires,  chrys- 
olites and  topazes  that  had  been  hoarded  as  treasure  against 
the  day  of  need ;  and  "  lastly  those  matchless  carbuncles 
which,  placed  afterwards  on  the  high  altar  of  St.  Mark, 
were  said  to  blaze  with  intrinsic  light,  and  serve  as  lamps — 
these  are  but  a  sample  of  the  treasures  that  accrued  to  Venice ; 
and  the  historian,  in  adverting  to  them,  appears  conscious 
that  language  must  fail  him  in  the  attempt  to  convey  an 
adequate  impression  of  their  immeasurable  extent,  their  in- 
appreciable cost  and  their  inexhaustible  luxury." 

Many  of  the  articles  from  this  sack  were  afterwards  to  be 
seen  in  Venice  adorning  the  altars  and  reliquaries,  and  pos- 
sibly on  the  berretta?  and  other  appliances  of  the  Doge ;  but 
the  most  notable  articles  transported  to  the  lagoon,  and,  it 
is  said,  almost  the  only  ones  whose  value  depended  on  their 
Fine  Art,  were  the  Bronze  Horses  now  over  the  porch  of  St. 
Mark.  To  quote  the  same  authority:  "The  long  cat- 
alogue of  precious  works  of  Art,  ruined  by  stupid,  brutal,  and 
unfeeling  ignorance,  excites  no  less  astonishment  than  regret 
and  indignation.  Books,  the  whole  literature  of  the  time, 
never  to  be  replaced;  marbles,  pictures,  statues,  obelisks  and 
bronzes;  which  the  magnificence,  the  pride,  the  luxury,  or 

1  This  famous  covering  of  the  head  of  the  Venetian  State  is  one  of 
the  most  interesting  appendages  of  royalty,  as  we  may  call  it,  in 
European  history. 


WEALTH  OF  OLD  VENICE     275 

the  good  taste  of  her  princes  had  lavished,  during  nine  cen- 
turies, upon  this  their  favourite  capital,  prizes  which  Egypt, 
Greece  and  Rome  had  supplied,  and  which  had  justly  ren- 
dered Constantinople  the  wonder  of  nations,  perished  in- 
discriminately beneath  the  fury  of  the  marauders;  and  while 
almost  every  church  throughout  Christendom  received  a  large 
accession  to  its  reliquary  from  the  translated  bones  of  saints 
and  confessors  (a  catalogue  of  these  disgusting  but  super- 
human valuables  falling  to  the  share  of  Venice  is  still  extant) , 
scarcely  one  monument  of  ancient  skill  and  taste  was  thought 
worthy  of  preservation.  The  Venetians  afforded  a  solitary 
example  in  the  removal  of  the  four  horses  of  gilt  bronze  from 
the  hippodrome.  Antiquaries  appear  to  hesitate  concerning 
the  date  or  even  the  native  country  of  these  horses;  for  by 
some  they  have  been  assigned  to  the  Roman  time  and  to  the 
age  of  Nero;  by  others,  to  the  Greeks  of  Chio,  at  a  much 
earlier  period.  Though  far  from  deserving  a  place  among 
the  choicest  specimens  of  Art,  their  possession,  if  we  may 
trust  their  most  generally  received  history,  has  always  been 
much  coveted.  Augustus,  it  is  said,  brought  them  from 
Alexandria,  after  the  conquest  of  Anthony,  and  erected  them 
on  a  triumphal  arch  in  Rome;  hence  they  were  successively 
removed  by  Nero,  Domitian,  Trajan,  and  Constantine,  to 
arches  of  their  own ;  and  in  each  of  these  positions,  it  is  be- 
lieved, they  were  attached  to  a  chariot.  Constantine,  in  the 
end,  transferred  them  to  his  new  capital." 

At  this  period  St.  Mark's  was  built,  and,  externally,  pretty 
much  as  it  is  at  present,  and  the  two  granite  columns  had  been 


276  VENICE 

placed  on  the  quay  of  the  Piazzetta,  also  brought  from  Con- 
stantinople at  a  former  time,  although  as  yet  they  had  not 
received  their  crowning  burdens,  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark,  and 
the  figure  of  St.  Theodore  standing  on  the  crocodile.  Very 
shortly  after  this  time,  the  two  square  piers,  the  visitor  will 
also  remember,  near  the  corner  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  were 
brought  from  Acre  and  other  plunder  of  a  semi-artistic  kind 
showed  that  the  love  of  beautiful,  or  perhaps  rather  of  rare, 
things,  had  begun  to  distinguish  the  Venetians  from  all  other 
men  employed  then  in  war  or  trade.  These  objects,  indeed, 
were  rather  trophies  than  refined  works,  but  they  remain  to 
us  to  indicate  the  taste  that  appreciated  whatever  decorated 
either  the  city  or  the  person — a  taste  that  assisted  to  develop 
the  prodigious  prosperity  of  the  Republic  at  the  time  of  its 
greatest  power.  The  incessant  activity  and  love  of  adven- 
ture abroad  united  with  that  love  of  Art  and  of  pleasure  at 
home.  At  first  the  settlers  had  to  fight  for  the  preservation 
of  the  soil  they  built  upon,  and  they  never  ceased  fighting  for 
dominion  till  the  whole  earth  acknowledged  them  foremost. 
An  enumeration  of  the  articles  peculiar  to  that  time  to  the 
trade  of  Venice  would  be  curious  enough  now.  The  ships 
of  her  merchants  exchanged  from  country  to  country  what- 
ever could  be  converted  into  money,  but  they  were  still  more 
employed  in  exporting.  After  the  silk  manufacture  was 
transplanted  from  the  Bosphorus,  it  was  very  soon  extended 
to  an  infinitely  greater  amount  of  produce  than  it  had  at- 
tained in  its  original  seat,  and  being  interdicted  for  domestic 
use  to  all  the  citizens  or  their  wives,  save  magistrates,  as. 


WEALTH  OF  OLD  VENICE     277 

many  other  luxuries  were  (a  Spartan  simplicity  for  a  brief 
time  being  maintained),  the  whole  of  Christendom  was  sup- 
plied from  Venice.  A  little  later  sprang  up  the  manufacture 
of  cloths,  to  which  we  in  England  contributed  wool  before 
we  could  use  it  ourselves;  and  long  prior  to  its  production 
elsewhere,  gilt  and  stamped  leather  brought  into  the  Exchange 
100,000  ducats  a  year,  as  did  waxen  tapers  to  a  somewhat 
similar  extent,  and  the  liqueurs  and  poisons  so  celebrated  or 
so  feared.  To  correct  these  last,  the  glass-makers  of  Murano, 
the  only  glass-makers  in  the  world  for  centuries,  fabricated 
the  apocryphal  thin  drinking-cups  that  flew  to  pieces  on 
receiving  the  deadly  potion.  Besides  this  article  of  doubtful 
commercial  value,  these  glass-houses  began  the  making  of 
mirrors,  as  well  as  vessels  of  all  sorts, — the  architect  they 
had  assisted  since  early  times, — thus  aiding  civilisation  in 
Italy  in  several  ways,  while  the  Northern  nations  lagged  be- 
hind. And  when  Germany  began  the  new  arts  of  printing 
and  engraving,  Venice,  where  a  trade  in  stencilled  or  stamped 
playing-cards  had  previously  existed,  very  quickly  advanced 
in  front  of  her,  showing  equal  learning  and  greater  dexterity. 
During  the  first  age  of  printing,  the  number  of  books  pro- 
duced in  Venice  exceeds  that  of  all  the  presses  of  France  and 
England  together;  and  many  of  them  are  besides  very  per- 
fect specimens  of  the  new  art,  such  as  those  by  the  Aldi  from 
1488,  the  year  in  which  the  elder  Aldus  settled  in  the  city. 
The  production  of  such  a  book  as  The  Hypnerotomachia 
Poliphili  alone  is  enough  to  place  it  first  in  the  early  history 
of  illustrated  typography. 


THE  BRIDES  OF    VENICE 

JOHN  RUSKIN 

THE  place  where  we  may  best  commence  our  inquiry 
is  one  renowned  in  the  history  of  Venice,  the  space 
of  ground  before  the  Church  of  Santa  Maria  For- 
mosa; a  spot  which,  after  the  Rialto  and  St.  Mark's  Place, 
ought  to  possess  a  peculiar  interest  in  the  mind  of  the  traveller, 
in  consequence  of  its  connection  with  the  most  touching  and 
true  legend  of  the  Brides  of  Venice.  That  legend  is  related 
at  length  in  every  Venetian  history,  and,  finally,  has  been 
told  by  the  poet  Rogers,  in  a  way  which  renders  it  impossible 
for  any  one  to  tell  it  after  him.  I  have  only,  therefore,  to 
remind  the  reader  that  the  capture  of  the  brides  took  place  in 
the  cathedral  church,  St.  Pietro  di  Castello ;  and  that  this  of 
Santa  Maria  Formosa  is  connected  with  the  tale,  only  because 
it  was  yearly  visited  with  prayers  by  the  Venetian  maidens, 
on  the  anniversary  of  their  ancestors'  deliverance.  For  that 
deliverance,  their  thanks  were  to  be  rendered  to  the  Virgin; 
and  there  was  no  church  then  dedicated  to  the  Virgin,  in 
Venice,  except  this. 

Neither  of  the  cathedral  church,  nor  of  this  dedicated  to 

St.  Mary  the  Beautiful,  is  one  stone  left  upon  another.     But, 

from  that  which  has  been  raised  on  the  site  of  the  latter,  we 

may  receive  a  most  important  lesson,  if  first  we  glance  back 

278 


THE  BRIDES   OF  VENICE      279 

to  the  traditional  history  of  the  church  which  has  been 
destroyed. 

No  more  honourable  epithet  than  "  traditional  "  can  be 
attached  to  what  is  recorded  concerning  it,  yet  I  should 
grieve  to  lose  the  legend  of  its  first  erection.  The  Bishop  of 
Uderzo,  driven  by  the  Lombards  from  his  bishopric,  as  he 
was  praying,  beheld  in  a  vision  the  Virgin  Mother,  who 
ordered  him  to  found  a  church  in  her  honour,  in  the  place 
where  he  should  see  a  white  cloud  rest.  And  when  he  went 
out,  the  white  cloud  went  before  him;  and  on  the  place 
where  it  rested  he  built  a  church,  and  it  was  called  the 
Church  of  St.  Mary  the  Beautiful,  from  the  loveliness  of  the 
form  in  which  she  had  appeared  in  the  vision. 

The  first  church  stood  only  for  about  two  centuries.  It 
was  rebuilt  in  864,  and  enriched  with  various  relics  some  fifty 
years  later;  relics  belonging  principally  to  St.  Nicodemus, 
and  much  lamented  when  they  and  the  church  were  together 
destroyed  by  fire  in  1105. 

It  was  then  rebuilt  in  "  magnifica  forma,"  much  re- 
sembling, according  to  Corner,  the  architecture  of  the  chancel 
of  St.  Mark. 

Thus,  by  Corner,  we  are  told  that  this  church,  resembling 
St.  Mark's,  "  remained  untouched  for  more  than  four  cen- 
turies," until,  in  1689,  it  was  thrown  down  by  an  earthquake, 
and  restored  by  the  piety  of  a  rich  merchant,  Turrin  Toroni, 
"  in  ornatissima  forma  " ;  and  that,  for  the  greater  beauty  of 
the  renewed  church,  it  had  added  to  it  two  facades  of  marble. 
With  this  information  that  of  the  Padre  dell'  Oratoria  agrees, 


280  VENICE 

only  he  gives  the  date  of  the  earlier  rebuilding  of  the  church 
in  1175,  and  ascribes  it  to  an  architect  of  the  name  of  Bar- 
betta.  But  Quadri,  in  his  usually  accurate  little  guide,  tells 
us  that  this  Barbetta  rebuilt  the  church  in  the  Fourteenth 
Century;  and  that,  of  the  two  fagades,  so  much  admired  by 
Corner,  one  is  of  the  Sixteenth  Century,  and  its  architect  un- 
known; and  the  rest  of  the  church  is  of  the  Seventeenth,  "  in 
the  style  of  Sansovino." 

There  is  no  occasion  to  examine,  or  endeavour  to  recon- 
cile, these  conflicting  accounts.  All  that  is  necessary  for  the 
reader  to  know  is,  that  every  vestige  of  the  church  in  which 
the  ceremony  took  place  was  destroyed  at  least  as  early  as 
1689;  and  that  the  ceremony  itself,  having  been  abolished 
in  the  close  of  the  Fourtenth  Century,  is  only  to  be  conceived 
as  taking  place  in  that  more  ancient  church,  resembling  St. 
Mark's,  which,  even  according  to  Quadri,  existed  until  that 
period.  I  would,  therefore,  endeavour  to  fix  the  reader's 
mind  for  a  moment,  on  the  contrast  between  the  former  and 
latter  aspect  of  this  space  of  ground ;  the  former,  when  it  had 
its  Byzantine  church,  and  its  yearly  procession  of  the  Doge 
and  the  Brides;  and  the  latter,  when  it  has  its  Renaissance 
church  "  in  the  style  of  Sansovino,"  and  its  yearly  honouring 
is  done  away. 

And,  first,  let  us  consider  for  a  little  the  significance  and 
nobleness  of  that  early  custom  of  the  Venetians,  which 
brought  about  the  attack  and  the  rescue  of  the  year  943 : 
that  there  should  be  but  one  marriage  day  for  the  nobles  of 
the  whole  nation,  so  that  all  might  rejoice  together;  and  that 


THE  BRIDES  OF  VENICE      281 

the  sympathy  might  be  full,  not  only  of  the  families  who  that 
year  beheld  the  alliance  of  their  children,  and  prayed  for 
them  in  one  crowd,  weeping  before  the  altar,  but  of  all  the 
families  of  the  State,  who  saw,  in  the  day  which  brought 
happiness  to  others,  the  anniversary  of  their  own.  Imagine 
the  strong  bond  of  brotherhood  thus  sanctified  among  them, 
and  consider  also  the  effect  on  the  minds  of  the  youth  of  the 
State ;  the  greater  deliberation  and  openness  necessarily  given 
to  the  contemplation  of  marriage,  to  which  all  the  people  were 
solemnly  to  bear  testimony;  the  more  lofty  and  unselfish 
tone  which  it  would  give  to  all  their  thoughts.  It  was  the 
exact  contrary  of  stolen  marriage.  It  was  marriage  to 
which  God  and  man  were  taken  for  witnesses,  and  every 
eye  was  invoked  for  its  glance,  and  every  tongue  for  its 
prayers. 

Later  historians  have  delighted  themselves  in  dwelling  on 
the  pageantry  of  the  marriage  day  itself,  but  I  do  not  find 
that  they  have  authority  for  the  splendour  of  their  descrip- 
tions. I  cannot  find  a  word  in  the  older  chronicles  about  the 
jewels  or  dress  of  the  brides,  and  I  believe  the  ceremony  to 
have  been  more  quiet  and  homely  than  is  usually  supposed. 
The  only  sentence  which  gives  colour  to  the  usual  accounts  of 
it  is  one  of  Sansovino's,  in  which  he  says  that  the  magnificent 
dress  of  the  brides  in  his  day  was  founded  "  on  ancient  cus- 
tom." "  Dressed  according  to  ancient  usage  in  white,  and 
with  her  hair  thrown  down  upon  her  shoulders,  interwoven 
with  threads  of  gold."  This  was  when  she  was  first  brought 
out  of  her  chamber  to  be  seen  by  the  guests  invited  to  the 


282  VENICE 

espousals.  "  And  when  the  form  of  the  espousal  has  been 
gone  through,  she  is  led,  to  the  sound  of  pipes  and  trumpets, 
and  other  musical  instruments,  round  the  room,  dancing 
serenely  all  the  time,  and  bowing  herself  before  the  guests; 
and  so  she  returns  to  her  chamber:  and  when  other  guests 
have  arrived,  she  again  comes  forth,  and  makes  the  circuit  of 
the  chamber.  And  this  is  repeated  for  an  hour  or  somewhat 
more;  and  then,  accompanied  by  many  ladies  who  wait  for 
her,  she  enters  a  gondola  without  its  felze  (canopy),  and, 
seated  on  a  somewhat  raised  seat  covered  with  carpets,  with  a 
great  number  of  gondolas  following  her,  she  goes  to  visit  the 
monasteries  and  convents,  wheresoever  she  has  any  relations." 
However  this  may  have  been,  the  circumstances  of  the  rite 
were  otherwise  very  simple.  Each  maiden  brought  her 
dowry  with  her  in  a  small  cassetta,  or  chest;  they  went 
first  to  the  cathedral,  and  waited  for  the  youths,  who,  having 
come,  they  heard  mass  together,  and  the  bishop  preached  to 
them  and  blessed  them;  and  so  each  bridegroom  took  his 
bride  and  her  dowry  and  bore  her  home. 

It  seems  that  the  alarm  given  by  the  attack  of  the  pirates 
put  an  end  to  the  custom  of  fixing  one  day  for  all  marriages : 
but  the  main  objects  of  the  institution  were  still  attained  by 
the  perfect  publicity  given  to  the  marriages  of  all  the  noble 
families;  the  bridegroom  standing  in  the  Court  of  the  Ducai 
Palace  to  receive  congratulations  on  his  betrothal,  and  the 
whole  body  of  the  nobility  attending  the  nuptials,  and  rejoic- 
ing, "  as  at  some  personal  good  fortune ;  since,  by  the  con- 
stitution of  the  State,  they  are  for  ever  incorporated  together, 


THE  BRIDES  OF  VENICE     283 

as  if  one  and  the  same  family."  But  the  festival  of  the  2nd 
of  February,  after  the  year  943,  seems  to  have  been  observed 
only  in  memory  of  the  delivery  of  the  brides,  and  no  longer 
set  apart  for  public  nuptials. 

There  is  much  difficulty  in  reconciling  the  various  ac- 
counts, or  distinguishing  the  inaccurate  ones,  of  the  manner 
of  keeping  this  memorable  festival.  Sansovino  says  that  the 
success  of  the  pursuit  of  the  pirates  was  owing  to  the  ready 
help  and  hard  fighting  of  the  men  of  the  district  of  Sta. 
Maria  Formosa,  for  the  most  part  trunk-makers;  and  that 
they,  having  been  presented  after  the  victory  to  the  Doge 
and  the  Senate,  were  told  to  ask  some  favour  for  their  reward. 
"  The  good  men  then  said  that  they  desired  the  Prince,  with 
his  wife  and  the  Signory,  to  visit  every  year  the  church  of 
their  district  on  the  day  of  its  feast.  And  the  Prince  asking 
them,  'Suppose  it  should  rain?'  they  answered,  'We  will 
give  you  hats  to  cover  you;  and  if  you  are  thirsty,  we  will 
give  you  to  drink.'  Whence  is  it  that  the  Vicar,  in  the 
name  of  the  people,  presents  to  the  Doge,  on  his  visit,  two 
flasks  of  malvoisie  and  two  oranges;  and  presents  to  him  two 
gilded  hats,  bearing  the  arms  of  the  Pope,  of  the  Prince,  and 
of  the  Vicar.  And  thus  was  instituted  the  Feast  of  the 
Maries,  which  was  called  noble  and  famous  because  the 
people  from  all  round  came  together  to  behold  it.  And  it 
was  celebrated  in  this  manner."  The  account  which  follows 
is  somewhat  prolix;  but  its  substance  is,  briefly,  that  twelve 
maidens  were  elected,  two  for  each  division  of  the  city;  and 
that  it  was  decided  by  lot  which  contrada,  or  quarter  of  the 


284  VENICE 

town,  should  provide  them  with  dresses.  This  was  done  at 
enormous  expense,  one  contrada  contending  with  another; 
and  even  the  jewels  of  the  treasury  of  St.  Mark  being  lent  for 
the  occasion  to  the  "  Maries,"  as  the  twelve  damsels  were 
called.  They,  being  thus  dressed  with  gold,  and  silver,  and 
jewels,  went  in  their  galley  to  St.  Mark's  for  the  Doge,  who 
joined  them  with  the  Signory,  and  went  first  to  San  Pietro 
di  Castello  to  hear  mass  on  St.  Mark's  Day,  the  3ist  of 
January^  and  to  Santa  Maria  Formosa  on  the  2nd  of 
February,  the  intermediate  day  being  spent  in  passing  in 
procession  through  the  streets  of  the  city,  "  and  sometimes 
there  arose  quarrels  about  the  place  they  should  pass  through, 
for  every  one  wanted  them  to  pass  by  his  house." 

But  whatever  doubt  attaches  to  the  particular  circum- 
stances of  its  origin,  there  is  none  respecting  the  splendour  of 
the  festival  itself,  as  it  was  celebrated  for  four  centuries  after- 
wards. We  find  that  each  contrada  spent  from  800  to  1000 
zecchins  in  the  dress  of  the  "  Maries"  entrusted  to  it;  but 
I  cannot  find  among  how  many  contradas  the  twelve  Maries 
were  divided;  it  is  also  to  be  supposed  that  most  of  the  ac- 
counts given  refer  to  the  later  periods  of  the  celebration  of  the 
festival.  In  the  beginning  of  the  Eleventh  Century,  the 
good  Doge  Pietro  Orseolo  II.  left  in  his  will  the  third  of  his 
entire  fortune  "  per  la  Festa  della  Marie  " ;  and,  in  the 
Fourteenth  Century,  so  many  people  came  from  the  rest  of 
Italy  to  see  it,  that  special  police  regulations  were  made  for 
it,  and  the  Council  of  Ten  was  twice  summoned  before  it 
took  place.  The  expense  lavished  upon  it  seems  to  have  in- 


THE  BRIDES  OF  VENICE     285 

creased  till  the  year  1379,  when  all  the  resources  of  the  Re- 
public were  required  for  the  terrible  war  of  Chiozza,  and  all 
festivity  was  for  that  time  put  an  end  to.  The  issue  of  the 
war  left  the  Venetians  with  neither  the  power  nor  the  disposi- 
tion to  restore  the  festival  on  its  ancient  scale,  and  they  seem 
to  have  been  ashamed  to  exhibit  it  in  reduced  splendour.  It 
was  entirely  abolished. 

As  if  to  do  away  even  with  its  memory,  every  feature  of 
the  surrounding  scene  which  was  associated  with  that  festival 
has  been  in  succeeding  ages  destroyed.  With  one  solitary 
exception,  there  is  not  a  house  left  in  the  whole  Piazza  of 
Santa  Maria  Formosa  from  whose  windows  the  festa  of  the 
Maries  has  ever  been  seen :  of  the  church  in  which  they  wor- 
shipped, not  a  stone  is  left,  even  the  form  of  the  ground  and 
direction  of  the  neighbouring  canals  are  changed ;  and  there 
is  now  but  one  landmark  to  guide  the  steps  of  the  traveller  to 
the  place  where  the  white  cloud  rested,  and  the  shrine  was 
built  to  St.  Mary  the  Beautiful.  Yet  the  spot  is  still  worth 
his  pilgrimage,  for  he  may  receive  a  lesson  upon  it,  though  a 
painful  one.  Let  him  first  fill  his  mind  with  the  fair  images 
of  the  ancient  festival,  and  then  seek  that  landmark,  the 
tower  of  the  modern  church,  built  upon  the  place  where  the 
daughters  of  Venice  knelt  yearly  with  her  noblest  lords;  and 
let  him  look  at  the  head  that  is  carved  on  the  base  of  the 
tower,  still  dedicated  to  St.  Mary  the  Beautiful. 

A  head, — huge,  inhuman,  and  monstrous, — leering  in 
bestial  degradation,  too  foul  to  be  either  pictured  or  described, 
or  to  be  beheld  for  more  than  an  instant ;  for  in  that  head  is 


286  VENICE 

embodied  the  type  of  the  evil  spirit  to  which  Venice  was 
abandoned  in  the  fourth  period  of  her  decline ;  and  it  is  well 
that  we  should  see  and  feel  the  full  horror  of  it  on  this  spot, 
and  know  what  pestilence  it  was  that  came  and  breathed  upon 
her  beauty,  until  it  melted  away  like  the  white  cloud  from  the 
ancient  fields  of  Santa  Maria  Formosa. 


SEASONS  OF   VENICE 

JULIA  CARTWR1GHT 

EACH  season  has  its  special  charm  in  Venice.  Even 
the  winter,  which  is  decidedly  the  least  preferable,  is 
not  without  its  advantages.  The  climate  is  decid- 
edly milder  than  that  of  Florence  or  Milan,  and  if  you  can 
secure  comfortable  quarters  and  a  good  stove  to  warm  your 
room  it  is  possible  to  spend  the  winter  very  pleasantly  in 
Venice.  The  Riva  is  always  warm  on  sunny  days,  and  the 
Piazza  loses  nothing  of  its  glory.  Frost  and  ice  have  not 
hindered  our  artists  from  painting  St.  Mark's  under  these 
exceptional  circumstances;  and  how  beautiful  it  can  be  in  a 
fall  of  snow  Mr.  Howells  has  told  us  in  words  that  are  a 
picture  in  themselves.  Others,  whose  works  are  too  well 
known  and  too  recent  to  need  mention,  have  shown  us  the 
fairness  of  hazy  mornings  in  winter  and  the  soft  clearness  of 
its  twilight  skies.  The  worst  part  is  the  absence  of  sun  in 
the  narrow  calli,  and  the  cutting  winds  which  meet  you  at  the 
corners,  making  you  envy  the  scaldino  which  every  woman 
carries  and  the  brisk  fires  of  the  chestnut-roasters,  who  carry 
on  a  brisk  trade  in  the  alleys.  But  even  sterner  ordeals  than 
these  would  be  worth  enduring  for  the  sake  of  the  burst  of 
spring  which  follows  close  upon  the  darkest  and  dreariest 
winter-time. 

A  few  warm,  bright  February  days,  and  the  whole  city 
287 


288  VENICE 

wakes  from  the  long  sleep  in  which  it  has  lain  torpid  for  the 
last  weeks.  Faces  look  out  again  from  the  windows,  people 
stand  talking  to  each  other  from  the  balconies  of  different 
houses,  bird-cages  are  hung  out  again  along  the  upper  stories 
of  the  alleys,  and  the  cats  steal  out  on  the  roofs  to  bask  under 
dormer  windows  or  make  themselves  at  home  among  the 
chimney-pots.  The  streets  are  full  of  shouting  and  singing 
and  the  canals  are  alive  with  boats.  Soon  a  mantle  of  fresh 
green  clothes  the  old  buildings  with  new  brightness,  fig-trees 
and  acacias  burst  into  leaf,  the  young  ivy  runs  riot  among  the 
carved  stone-work  of  the  ancient  well  and  wreathes  the  rusty 
iron  ring  to  which  the  gondola  is  moored.  The  market- 
places are  full  of  hyacinths  and  early  lilies;  the  vines  at  the 
traghetti  on  the  Riva  and  Canalazzo  put  forth  delicate  shoots, 
and  not  an  old  wall  or  dark  courtyard  but  has  a  bud  or  leaf  to 
wave  at  the  coming  spring. 

This  first  gladness  of  early  spring  in  Venice  is  charming, 
and  better  still  the  later  months,  when  May  ushers  in  the 
summer-time,  with  its  long  days  and  heavenly  nights.  But 
hard  as  it  is  to  choose  between  the  seasons,  I  am  not  sure  that 
autumn  is  not  the  pleasantest  time  of  all  these.  When  here 
at  home  the  cold  north-west  wind  and  sere  leaves  are  already 
reminding  us  that  the  year  is  on  the  wane  it  is  still  summer 
in  the  lagoons. 

The  great  heats  are  over,  it  is  true;  a  thunder-storm  or 
two  has  cooled  the  air  and  added  keener  zest  to  the  pleasures 
of  the  out-of-doors  life  which  the  Venetian  loves.  The  gay 
Riva  is  gayer  than  ever.  On  evenings  when  the  band  plays 


RIO   ALBRIZZI 


SEASONS    IN   VENICE        289 

the  crowds  on  the  Piazza  overflow  into  the  Piazzetta  and 
stretch  from  the  Royal  Terrace  all  along  the  shore  to  the 
Public  Gardens.  Everywhere  there  is  a  fulness  of  life  and 
colour.  Now,  if  ever,  it  is  the  artists'  time,  and  you  meet 
them  wherever  you  go,  not  only  round  St.  Mark's  and  the 
Piazza,  where  they  cluster  like  bees,  but  in  the  more  remote 
quarters  and  distant  canals,  painting  the  fruit  laden  rafts  or 
lingering  to  watch  the  sinking  sun  scatter  clouds  of  fire  over 
sky  and  sea  and  palace  roofs.  The  sunsets  are  more  splendid 
in  September  and  October,  I  think,  than  at  any  time;  and 
their  glory  lingers  longer  in  our  minds  because  we  know  they 
will  soon  be  followed  by  those  damp,  white  mists  which  rest 
in  thick  folds  on  the  lagoon,  hiding  the  scene  from  your  eyes 
and  sending  their  chilliness  into  your  bones. 

Flowers  are  still  plentiful,  roses  abound  in  the  market- 
places ;  you  may  still  buy  as  many  carnations  as  you  can  hold 
in  both  hands  for  a  soldo.  And  better  still,  the  fruit  season 
is  at  its  height,  and  brings  a  new  wealth  of  colour  into  the 
narrowest  streets  and  most  desolate  squares.  Earlier  in  the 
year  you  have  had  the  cherries  and  the  strawberries;  all  the 
winter  there  were  pyramids  of  oranges  and  lemons,  and  cart- 
loads of  chestnuts,  but  now  you  have  black  and  white  grapes 
and  purple  figs,  and  scarlet  tomatoes  and  pomegranates,  and 
peaches,  and  apples  and  pears  in  countless  profusion.  At 
every  corner  of  the  Riva  stalls  and  booths  are  set  up  laden 
with  fruit  of  a  thousand  hues;  at  every  turn  of  the  streets 
you  see  the  dark-green  water-melons — Zucchi  santi — which 
appear  to  form  the  chief  food  of  the  poorer  classes  at  this 


290  VENICE 

season.  You  pass  a  fruiterer's  shop  in  some  narrow  lane  and 
see  them  lying  in  a  great  heap  under  the  picture  of  a  Ma- 
donna, with  a  tiny  oil-lamp  burning  in  her  honour  and 
throwing  a  hundred  sparkles  into  the  rippling  water  below. 
A  step  or  two  further  on  and  you  find  a  dozen  of  the  same 
round  green  balls,  tumbled  together  in  the  archway  of  a  bridge 
on  the  edge  of  the  canal,  while  a  ragged  beggar-boy  with  a 
Murillo  face  and  thick  crop  of  curly  hair  is  munching  the 
biggest  he  can  lay  hands  on. 

All  the  morning  fruit-vendors,  with  baskets  of  figs  and 
grapes  on  their  heads,  throng  the  narrow  streets  between  the 
Merceria  and  the  Rialto;  at  evenfall  a  stream  of  boats  and 
rafts  are  seen  slowly  wending  their  way  across  the  Giudecca 
or  along  the  Riva,  bringing  the  produce  of  their  gardens  from 
Mazzorbo,  from  Malamocco,  and  Pelestrina,  to  the  Venetian 
market.  They  are  among  the  most  picturesque  craft  in 
Venice  these  market-boats,  piled  up  with  grapes  and  pome- 
granates and  vegetables,  and  rowed  by  strong-limbed  fisher- 
men with  bronzed  faces  or  black-eyed  lads  in  torn  blue  hose 
and  slouching  hats.  Sometimes  a  curly-headed  child  lies 
asleep  in  the  stern,  his  head  resting  on  a  big  cabbage ;  and  I 
have  a  vivid  remembrance  of  a  brown-faced  maiden,  with  a 
yellow  handkerchief  on  her  shoulders  and  a  string  of  gold 
beads  round  her  throat,  who  sat  throned  like  a  goddess 
among  the  fruit-baskets.  The  cloud-like  masses  of  her  wavy 
hair  were  gathered  in  loose  tresses  about  her  brows,  her  cheek 
rested  thoughtfully  on  her  hand  and  her  dark  eyes,  turned 
with  I  know  not  what  dream  of  yearning,  towards  the  distant 


SEASONS    IN   VENICE        291 

islands  lying  in  the  pearly  light  of  the  far  horizon,  while  the 
bark  with  its  precious  freight  moved  slowly  over  the  green 
waters.  It  was  a  picture  worthy  of  being  painted  by  the 
hands  of  a  Millet  or  a  Costa. 

These  boats  are  often  to  be  seen  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
city  or  in  the  lagoons  of  Murano  and  Chioggia;  but  if  you 
want  to  study  them  at  your  leisure  you  must  go  to  the  Rialto 
at  evening  when  the  peasant  women  are  setting  up  their  stalls 
for  the  morrow's  market,  and  boatmen,  in  striped  blue  and 
white  jackets,  are  talking  and  gesticulating  on  the  steps  of 
the  quay,  as  one  by  one  the  fruit-laden  rafts  come  in.  It  is  a 
lively  and  animated  scene,  and  apart  from  the  charm  of  colour 
and  movement  in  the  busy  human  life  that  is  always  stirring 
there,  the  Venetian  market  has  a  peculiar  interest.  For  this 
is  the  heart  and  core  of  old  Venice,  the  very  centre  of  her  once 
mighty  life.  The  pavement  now  trodden  by  fruiterers  and 
peasants  was  of  old  the  Exchange  where  her  merchant- 
princes  traded.  That  church  behind  the  market  is  S.  Gia- 
como  di  Rialto,  which  dates  back  to  the  Ninth  Century  and 
the  days  when  the  first  Venetians  fled  before  King  Pepin  to 
found  the  Republic  of  St.  Mark  and  the  Doges  fixed  their 
seats  at  Riva  alto. 


VENETIAN  PAINTING 

HIPPOLYTE   ADOLPHE    TAINE 

THE  Academy  of  Fine  Arts  contains  a  collection  of 
the  earliest  painters.  A  large  picture  in  compart- 
ments, of  1380,  somewhat  barbarously,  shows  their 
origin:  here,  as  elsewhere,  the  new  art  is  seen  issuing  from 
Byzantine  traditions.  It  appeared  late,  much  later  than  in 
precocious  and  intelligent  Tuscany.  We  find,  however,  in 
the  Fourteenth  Century,  a  Semitecolo  and  a  Guariento,  weak 
disciples  of  the  school  that  Giotto  founded  at  Padua;  but  in 
order  to  find  the  first  national  painters,  we  must  come  down 
to  the  middle  of  the  following  century.  At  this  time,  there 
lived  in  Murano  a  family  of  artists,  the  Vivarini.  The 
eldest,  Antonio,  exhibits  the  rudiments  of  Venetian  taste,  such 
as  old  men  with  venerable  beards,  and  bald  heads,  beautiful 
rosy  or  greenish  draperies  with  melting  tones;  little  angels, 
quite  plump;  and  Madonnas  with  full  cheeks.  After  him, 
his  brother,  Bartolomeo,  undoubtedly  instructed  in  the  School 
of  Padua,  led  painting  for  a  short  time  towards  hard  relief 
and  bony  forms;  but  in  him,  as  in  the  others,  the  feeling  for 
rich  colour  is  already  visible.  On  leaving  this  antechamber 
of  art  we  experienced  a  sensation  that  is  not  created  by  the 
similar  rooms  in  Sienna  and  Florence;  and  this  sensation  is 
increased  when  we  stand  before  the  masters  of  this  dim  era, 
John  Bellini  and  Carpaccio. 


VENETIAN   PAINTING         293 

It  is  evident  that,  while  following  a  path  of  its  own, 
Venetian  painting  developed  as  in  the  rest  of  Italy.  It  issued 
here,  as  elsewhere,  from  missals  and  mosaics  and  was  at  first 
in  sympathy  with  purely  Christian  emotion ;  then,  by  degrees, 
the  feeling  for  beautiful  human  life  introduced  vigorous  and 
healthy  bodies  taken  from  contemporary  types  into  the  altar- 
frames,  and  we  wonder  at  the  placid  expressions  and  religious 
physiognomies  on  the  blooming  faces  in  which  the  youthful 
blood  circulates  and  sustains  innate  temperament.  This  is 
the  confluence  of  two  spirits  and  two  ages ;  one,  the  Christian 
which  is  fading  away;  the  other,  the  Pagan,  which  is  in  the 
ascendant.  In  Venetian  art  special  traits  are  distinguished. 
The  people  are  more  closely  copied  from  life  and  are  less 
transformed  by  classic  or  mystic  sentiment,  not  so  pure  as  at 
Perugia,  not  so  noble  as  at  Florence:  they  are  addressed 
more  to  the  senses  than  to  the  mind  or  the  heart;  they  are 
more  quickly  recognised  as  men  and  give  greater  pleasure  to 
the  eye.  Strong  and  lively  tones  colour  their  muscles  and 
their  faces;  living  flesh  is  soft  on  their  shoulders  and  on  the 
thighs  of  little  children;  clear  landscapes  open  into  the  dis- 
tance to  make  the  deeper  tints  of  the  figure  stand  out;  saints 
gather  around  the  Virgin  in  a  variety  of  attitudes  unknown 
to  the  other  primitive  schools  with  their  uniform  processions. 
At  the  height  of  its  fervour  and  faith,  the  national  spirit, 
fond  of  diversity  and  joy,  allows  a  smile  to  escape.  Nothing 
is  more  striking  in  this  respect  than  the  eight  pictures  by  Car- 
paccio  of  St.  Ursula:  all  that  we  have  spoken  of  is  here  and 
particularly  the  awkwardness  of  the  mediaeval  image-maker. 


294  VENICE 

He  ignores  half  of  the  landscape  and  the  nude:  his  rocks, 
bristling  with  trees,  seem  to  have  come  from  a  psalter;  fre- 
quently his  trees  look  as  if  they  were  cut  out  of  varnished 
sheet-iron ;  his  ten  thousand  martyrs  crucified  on  a  mountain 
are  as  grotesque  as  the  figures  of  an  old  mystery-play;  you 
perceive  that  he  has  never  been  to  Florence,  and  that  he  has 
not  studied  natural  objects  with  Paolo  Uccello  nor  human 
members  and  muscles  with  Pollaiolo.  On  the  other  hand, 
we  find  in  him  the  most  chaste  figures  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
and  that  extreme  finish,  that  perfect  sincerity,  that  flower  of 
Christian  conscientiousness  which  the  following  age,  more 
sensual  and  rough,  will  trample  upon  in  passion.  The  saint 
and  her  betrothed,  with  their  flowing  blonde  hair,  are  grave 
and  tender  like  legendary  personages.  At  one  time  we  see 
her  asleep  and  hearing  the  announcement  of  her  martyrdom 
from  an  angel;  at  another,  kneeling  with  her  husband  to 
receive  the  benediction  of  the  Pope ;  at  another,  lifted  in  glory 
above  a  crowded  field  of  heads.  In  still  another  picture, 
she  appears  with  Saint  Anne  and  two  old  saints  who  are  em- 
bracing each  other.  One  cannot  imagine  more  peaceful  and 
pious  figures.  St.  Ursula,  pale  and  gentle,  her  head  slightly 
bent,  holds  in  her  charming  hands  a  banner  and  a  green  palm. 
Her  silken  hair  falls  over  the  virginal  blue  of  her  long  robe, 
and  a  royal  mantle  bright  with  gold  enfolds  her.  She  is 
indeed  a  saint,  for  the  candour,  humility  and  delicacy  of  the 
Middle  Ages  are  perfectly  expressed  in  her  gesture  and 
glance.  Such  is  the  age  and  such  the  country.  These  paint- 
ings portray  interesting  customs  and  rich  decorations.  The 


VENETIAN  PAINTING         295 

artist,  as  his  great  successors  did  after  him,  displays  architec- 
ture, textiles,  vessels,  lordly  processions,  magnificently  orna- 
mented and  lustrous  robes,  all  somewhat  out  of  proportion, 
but  whose  brilliancy  and  variety  anticipate  the  work  of  the 
future,  as  an  illuminated  manuscript  anticipates  a  picture. 

There  are  certain  families  of  plants,  the  species  of  which 
are  so  closely  allied  that  they  resemble  more  than  they 
differ  from  each  other:  such  are  the  Venetian  painters,  not 
only  the  four  celebrities  Giorgione,  Titian,  Tintoret,  and 
Veronese,  but  others  less  illustrious,  Palma  "  il  Vecchio  " ; 
Bonifazio,  Paris  Bordone,  Pordenone,  and  that  host  enu- 
merated by  Ridolfi  in  his  Lives,  contemporaries,  relatives,  and 
successors  of  the  great  men,  Andrea  Vicentino,  Palma  "  il 
Giovine,"  Zelotti,  Bazzaco,  Padovinano,  Bassano,  Schia- 
vone,  Moretto,  and  many  others.  What  first  appeals  to  the 
eye  is  the  general  and  common  type;  the  individual  and  per- 
sonal traits  remain  for  a  time  in  shadow.  They  have 
worked  together  and  by  turns  in  the  Ducal  Palace,  but  by 
the  involuntary  concord  of  their  talents  their  pictures  make 
an  harmonious  whole. 

At  first  our  eyes  are  astonished ;  with  the  exception  of  three 
or  four  halls,  the  apartments  are  low  and  small.  The  Hall  of 
the  Council  of  the  Ten  and  those  surrounding  it  *  are  gilded 
habitations,  insufficient  for  the  figures  that  dwell  therein; 
but  after  a  moment  one  forgets  the  habitation  and  sees  only 
the  figures.  Power  and  voluptuousness  blaze  there  unbridled 

1  Painted  by  Veronese  and  by  Zellotti  and  Bazzaco  under  his 
direction. 


296  VENICE 

and  superb.  In  the  angles  nude  men,  painted  caryatides, 
jut  out  in  such  high  relief  that  at  the  first  glance  one  takes 
them  for  statues ;  a  colossal  breath  swells  their  chests ;  their 
thighs  and  their  shoulders  writhe.  On  the  ceiling,  a  Mercury, 
entirely  nude,  is  almost  a  figure  by  Rubens,  but  of  a  more 
gross  sensuality.  A  gigantic  Neptune  urges  before  him  his 
sea-horses  which  plash  through  the  waves;  his  foot  presses 
the  edge  of  his  chariot;  his  enormous  and  ruddy  body  is 
turned  backwards;  he  raises  his  conch  with  the  joy  of  a 
bestial  god ;  the  salt  wind  blows  through  his  scarf,  his  hair, 
and  his  beard;  one  could  never  imagine,  without  seeing  it, 
such  a  furious  elan,  such  an  overflowing  of  animal  spirits,  such 
a  joy  of  pagan  flesh,  such  a  triumph  of  free  and  shameless 
life  in  the  open  air  and  broad  sunlight.  What  an  injustice 
to  limit  the  Venetians  to  the  painting  of  merely  happy  scenes 
and  to  the  art  of  simply  pleasing  the  eye!  They  have  also 
painted  grandeur  and  heroism ;  the  mere  energetic  and  active 
body  has  attracted  them;  like  the  Flemings,  they  have  their 
colossi  also.  Their  drawing,  even  without  colour,  is  capable 
by  itself  of  expressing  all  the  solidity  and  all  the  vitality  of 
the  human  structure.  Look  in  this  same  hall  at  the  four 
grisailles  by  Veronese — five  or  six  women  veiled  or  half-nude, 
all  so  strong  and  of  such  a  frame  that  their  thighs  and  arms 
would  stifle  a  warrior  in  their  embrace,  and,  nevertheless, 
their  physiognomy  is  so  simple  or  so  proud  that,  despite  their 
smile,  they  are  virgins  like  Raphael's  Venuses  and  Psyches. 
The  more  we  consider  the  ideal  figures  of  Venetian  art,  the 
more  we  feel  the  breath  of  an  heroic  age  behind  us.  Those 


VENETIAN  PAINTING         297 

great  draped  old  men  with  the  bald  foreheads  are  the  patri- 
cian kings  of  the  Archipelago,  Barberesque  sultans  who,  trail- 
ing their  silken  simars,  received  tribute  and  order  executions. 
The  superb  women  in  sweeping  robes,  bedizened  and  creased, 
are  empress-daughters  of  the  Republic,  like  that  Catherina 
Cornaro  from  whom  Venice  received  Cyprus.  There  are  the 
muscles  of  fighters  in  the  bronzed  breasts  of  the  sailors  and 
captains;  their  bodies,  reddened  by  the  sun  and  wind,  have 
dashed  against  the  athletic  bodies  of  janizaries;  their  turbans, 
their  pelisses,  their  furs,  their  sword-hilts  constellated  with 
precious  stones, — all  the  magnificence  of  Asia  is  mingled  on 
their  bodies  with  the  floating  draperies  of  antiquity  and  with 
the  nudities  of  Pagan  tradition.  Their  straight  gaze  is  still 
tranquil  and  savage,  and  the  pride  and  the  tragic  grandeur  of 
their  expression  announce  the  presence  of  a  life  in  which  man 
was  concentrated  in  a  few  simple  passions,  having  no  other 
thought  than  that  of  being  master  so  that  he  should  not  be  a 
slave,  and  to  kill  so  that  he  should  not  be  killed.  Such  is  the 
spirit  of  a  picture  by  Veronese  which,  in  the  Hall  of  the  Coun- 
cil of  the  Ten,  represents  an  old  warrior  and  a  young  woman ; 
it  is  an  allegory,  but  we  do  not  trouble  ourselves  about  the 
subject.  The  man  is  seated  and  leans  forward,  his  chin  upon 
his  hand,  with  a  savage  air;  his  colossal  shoulders,  his  arm, 
and  his  bare  leg  encircled  with  a  knemis  of  lions'  heads  start 
out  of  his  ample  drapery;  with  his  turban,  his  white  beard,  his 
thoughtful  brow,  and  his  traits  of  a  wearied  lion,  he  has  the 
appearance  of  a  Pacha  who  is  tired  of  everything.  She,  with 
downcast  eyes,  places  her  hands  upon  her  soft  breast;  her 


298  VENICE 

magnificent  hair  is  caught  up  with  pearls ;  she  seems  a  captive 
awaiting  the  will  of  her  master,  and  her  neck  and  bowed 
face  are  strongly  enpurpled  in  the  shadow  that  encircles 
them. 

Nearly  all  the  other  halls  are  empty;  the  paintings  have 
been  taken  into  an  interior  room.  We  go  to  find  the  curator 
of  the  Museum ;  we  tell  him  in  bad  Italian  that  we  have  no 
letters  of  introduction,  nor  titles,  nor  any  rights  whatsoever 
to  be  admitted  to  see  them.  Thereupon  he  has  the  kindness 
to  conduct  us  into  the  reserved  hall,  to  lift  up  the  canvases, 
one  after  the  other,  and  to  lose  two  hours  in  showing  them 
to  us. 

I  have  never  had  greater  pleasure  in  Italy;  these  canvases 
are  now  before  our  eyes;  we  can  look  at  them  as  near  as  we 
please,  at  our  ease,  and  we  are  alone.  There  are  some 
browned  giants  by  Tintoret,  with  their  skin  wrinkled  by  the 
play  of  the  muscles.  Saint  Andrew  and  Saint  Mark,  real 
colossi  like  those  of  Rubens.  There  is  a  Saint  Christopher 
by  Titian,  a  kind  of  bronzed  and  bowed  Atlas  with  his  four 
limbs  straining  to  bear  the  weight  of  a  world,  and  on  his  neck, 
by  an  extraordinary  contrast,  the  tiny,  soft,  and  laughing 
bambino,  whose  infantine  flesh  has  the  delicacy  and  grace  of 
a  flower.  Above  all  there  are  a  dozen  mythological  and 
allegorical  paintings  by  Tintoret  and  Veronese,  of  such  bril- 
liancy and  such  intoxicating  fascination  that  a  veil  seems  to 
fall  from  our  eyes  and  we  discover  an  unknown  world,  a 
paradise  of  delights  situated  beyond  all  imagination  and  all 
dreams.  When  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain  transported 


VENETIAN   PAINTING         299 

into  his  harem  his  sleeping  youths  to  render  them  capable  of 
extreme  devotion,  doubtless  it  was  such  a  spectacle  that  he 
furnished. 

Upon  a  coast  at  the  margin  of  the  infinite  sea,  serious 
Ariadne  receives  the  ring  of  Bacchus,  and  Venus,  with  a 
crown  of  gold,  has  come  through  the  air  to  celebrate  their 
marriage.  Here  is  the  sublime  beauty  of  bare  flesh,  such  as 
it  appears  coming  out  of  the  water  vivified  by  the  sun  and 
touched  with  shadows.  The  goddess  is  floating  in  liquid 
light  and  her  twisted  back,  her  flanks  and  her  curves  are 
palpitating  half  enveloped  in  a  white,  diaphanous  veil. 
With  what  words  can  we  paint  the  beauty  of  an  attitude,  a 
tone,  or  an  outline?  Who  will  describe  the  healthy  and 
roseate  flesh  under  the  amber  transparency  of  gauze?  How 
shall  we  represent  the  soft  plenitude  of  a  living  form  and  the 
curves  of  limbs  which  flow  into  the  leaning  body?  Truly 
she  is  swimming  in  the  light  like  a  fish  in  its  lake,  and 
the  air,  filled  with  vague  reflections,  embraces  and  caresses 
her. 

Beside  it  are  two  young  women,  Peace  and  Plenty. 
With  infinite  delicacy  Peace  leans  towards  her  sister;  she  is 
turning  away  and  her  head  is  in  shadow,  but  she  has  the 
freshness  of  immortal  youth.  How  luminous  are  their 
gathered  tresses,  yellow  as  the  ripened  wheat!  Their  legs 
and  bodies  are  slightly  deflected.  One  of  them  seems  to  be 
falling,  and  the  curve  of  her  moving  body  is  adorable.  No 
painter  has  appreciated  so  fully  the  yielding  roundness,  or 
arrested  action  so  wonderfully.  They  are  going  to  take  a 


3oo  VENICE 

posture,  or  walk  away;  the  eye  and  mind  involuntarily 
supply  the  action. 

Still  more  animated  and  voluptuous  is  the  coquetry  of  the 
group  of  Mercury  and  the  Three  Graces.  All  of  them  are 
leaning;  for  with  Tintoret,  a  body  is  not  living  when  its 
posture  is  motionless;  the  exhibition  of  a  deflected  figure 
adds  a  mobile  grace  to  the  general  charm  of  beauty.  One  of 
the  Graces,  seated,  extends  her  arms,  and  the  light  that  falls 
on  her  thigh  makes  a  part  of  her  face,  neck  and  breast  glow 
against  the  indistinct  purple  shadow.  Her  sister,  kneeling, 
with  downcast  eyes,  clasps  her  hand;  a  long  gauze  scarf, 
fine  as  those  silvery  mists  that  illumine  the  fields  at  dawn,  is 
twined  about  her  waist  and  floats  over  her  breast,  the  rosy 
tints  of  which  are  seen  through  it.  In  her  other  hand,  she 
holds  a  blooming  spray  of  flowers,  the  snowy  whiteness  of 
which  contrasts  with  the  purplish  white  of  the  rounded  arm. 
The  third,  is  lying  at  full  length,  in  a  tortuous  pose,  and  the 
eye  can  embrace  from  neck  to  heel  the  superb  framework  of 
spine  and  hip.  Wavy  hair,  tiny  chin,  rounded  eyelids, 
slightly  turned  up  nose,  delicate  ears  like  shells  of  mother-of- 
pearl, — her  whole  countenance  expresses  a  joyous,  half- 
malicious,  archness ;  one  would  call  her  a  bold  courtesan. 

These  are  the  traits  by  which  Tintoret  is  recognised:  a 
certain  roughness  and  violence,  strong  colours,  unconstrained 
attitudes,  and  virile  nudity.  Veronese  has  more  silvery  and 
roseate  tones,  gentler  figures,  lighter  shadows  and  more  lux- 
urious and  restful  decorations.  Near  a  broken  column  a  large 
and  noble  woman,  Industry,  seated  by  Innocence,  is  weaving 


VENETIAN  PAINTING         301 

an  aerial  tissue;  her  laughing  eyes  are  turned  towards  the 
blue  of  the  sky,  her  crimped  blonde  hair  is  full  of  light;  her 
half-opened  mouth  is  a  pomegranate;  a  vague  smile  allows 
her  pearly  teeth  to  be  seen;  and  the  atmosphere  that  sur- 
rounds her  has  the  roseate  hue  of  a  brilliant  dawn.  The 
other,  in  an  unstudied  attitude,  leans  over  her  little  lamb ;  the 
silvery  reflections  of  her  silken  drapery  glisten  around  her; 
her  head  is  in  shadow ;  but  the  blushing  dawn  illumines  her 
lips,  her  ear  and  her  cheek. 

Such  figures  cannot  be  described;  one  could  never  have 
imagined  that  such  poetry  could  exist  in  clothing  and  adorn- 
ment. In  another  picture  by  Veronese,  Venice,  the  Queen, 
is  seated  on  a  throne  between  Peace  and  Justice ;  her  robe  of 
white  silk  embroidered  with  golden  lilies  undulates  over  a 
mantle  of  ermine  and  scarlet ;  her  arm,  her  delicate  hand  and 
her  curving  dimpled  fingers  rest  their  satin  whiteness  and 
their  soft  serpentine  contours  on  the  lustrous  robe.  The  face 
is  in  shadow — a  half  shadow  dewy  with  bluish,  palpable  at- 
mosphere which  enlivens  the  carmine  lips ;  the  lips  are  verit- 
able cherries,  and  all  this  shadow  is  relieved  by  the  high 
lights  on  the  hair,  by  the  soft  gleams  of  the  pearls  on  the 
neck  and  in  the  ears,  and  by  the  scintillations  of  the  diadem 
whose  jewels  seem  to  be  magical  eyes.  She  smiles  with  an  air 
of  regal  and  beaming  benignity,  like  a  flower  happy  in  the 
opening  of  its  petals.  Near  her,  Peace,  is  bowing  so  low 
that  she  is  almost  falling;  her  skirt  of  yellow  silk  embossed 
with  red  flowers  is  carelessly  gathered  into  folds  beneath  the 
richest  of  violet  mantles ;  strands  of  pearls  are  wound  about 


302  VENICE 

her  light  tresses  beneath  her  white  veil;  and  what  a  divine 
little  ear  she  has ! 

There  is  another  picture,  still  more  celebrated,  The  Rape  of 
Europa.  For  brilliancy,  fancy,  refinement  and  extraordinary 
invention  in  colour,  it  has  no  equal.  The  reflection  of  the 
foliage  overhead  bathes  the  whole  picture  with  an  aqueous, 
greenish  tone ;  it  even  tints  Europa's  garment ;  she,  arch  and 
languishing,  seems  almost  a  figure  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 
This  is  one  of  the  works  in  which  through  the  combination 
and  subtlety  of  tones,  a  painter  surpasses  himself,  forgets  his 
audience  and  is  lost  in  the  unexplored  regions  of  his  art ;  for, 
forsaking  all  known  rules,  he  finds,  beyond  the  common 
every-day  world,  harmonies,  contrasts  and  strange  successes, 
beyond  all  verisimilitude.  Rembrandt  produced  a  similar 
work — with  his  Night  Watch.  You  must  look  upon  it  and 
be  silent. 

In  attempting  to  picture  Titian,  we  imagine  a  happy  man, 
"  the  happiest  and  the  healthiest  of  his  species,  Heaven 
having  bestowed  upon  him  nothing  but  favours  and  felici- 
ties," the  first  among  his  rivals,  visited  in  his  house  by  the 
Kings  of  France  and  Poland,  a  favourite  of  the  Emperor, 
of  Philip  II.,  of  the  Doges,  of  Pope  Paul  HI.,  of  all  the 
Italian  princes,  created  a  knight  and  a  count  of  the  Empire, 
overwhelmed  with  orders,  liberally  paid,  pensioned  and 
worthily  enjoying  his  good  fortune.  He  kept  house  in  great 
state,  dressed  himself  splendidly,  and  entertained  at  his  table 
cardinals,  lords,  the  greatest  artists  and  the  ablest  writers  of 
his  day.  Around  him,  beauty,  taste,  cultivation  and  talent 


VENETIAN  PAINTING         303 

reflect  back  upon  him,  as  if  from  a  mirror,  the  brightness  of 
his  own  genius.  His  brother,  his  son  Orazio,  his  two  cousins 
Cesare  and  Fabrizio,  and  his  relative  Marco  di  Titiano,  are 
all  excellent  painters.  His  daughter,  Lavinia,  dressed  as 
Flora,  with  a  basket  of  fruit  on  her  head,  supplies  him  with  a 
model  of  fresh  complexion  and  ample  form.  His  talent  flows 
on  like  a  great  river  in  its  bed ;  nothing  disturbs  its  course 
and  its  own  increase  is  sufficient ;  like  Leonardo  and  Michel- 
angelo, he  sees  nothing  outside  of  his  art. 

We  can  see  at  the  Academy  the  two  extremes  of  his  develop- 
ment, his  last  picture,  a  Descent  from  the  Cross,  finished  by 
Palma  the  younger,  and  one  of  his  early  pictures,  a  Visitation, 
which  he  doubtless  painted  on  leaving  the  school  of  John 
Bellini.  An  immense  painting  of  his  youth,  The  Presentation 
of  the  Virgin,  shows  with  what  boldness  and  ease  he  enters 
almost  at  the  first  expression  of  his  genius  upon  the  career 
which  he  is  to  pursue  to  the  last. 

In  seeking  for  the  principal  trait  which  distinguishes  him 
from  his  neighbours,  we  find  that  it  is  simplicity;  by  not 
refining  on  colour,  action  and  types,  he  obtains  powerful 
effects  with  colour,  action  and  types.  Such  is  the  character- 
istic of  his  greatly  celebrated  Assumption.  A  reddish,  pur- 
plish and  intense  tint  envelops  the  entire  picture;  it  is  a 
most  vigorous  colour,  and  by  its  means  a  kind  of  healthful 
energy  breathes  through  the  whole  painting.  Below  are  the 
apostles  leaning  and  seated,  nearly  all  with  their  heads  raised 
to  Heaven  and  bronzed  like  the  Adriatic  sailors.  Their  hair 
and  beards  are  black ;  an  intense  shadow  hides  their  faces ;  the 


304  VENICE 

sombre  ferruginous  tint  hardly  indicates  their  flesh.  One  of 
them,  in  the  centre,  in  a  brown  cloak,  almost  disappears  in 
the  darkness,  which  seems  darker  on  account  of  the  surround- 
ing brightness.  Two  blood  red  draperies  are  contrasted 
with  two  large  green  cloaks.  It  is  all  a  confused  commotion 
of  writhing  arms,  muscular  shoulders,  impassioned  heads,  and 
flowing  draperies.  Overhead,  midway  in  air,  the  Virgin 
ascends  in  glory,  brilliant  as  the  vapour  of  a  furnace.  She  is 
of  their  race,  strong  and  healthy,  without  exaltation,  without 
a  mystic  smile,  and  proudly  enveloped  in  her  red  robe  and  blue 
mantle.  The  material  assumes  a  thousand  folds  from  the 
motion  of  her  superb  body;  her  attitude  is  athletic,  her  ex- 
pression grave,  and  the  flat  tone  of  her  face  comes  out  in  full 
relief  against  the  flaming  brilliancy  of  the  aureole.  At  her 
feet,  extending  over  the  entire  space,  is  displayed  a  dazzling 
ring  of  young  angels,  whose  fair  and  rosy  flesh  traversed  by 
purple  shadows  contributes  the  brightest  bloom  of  humanity  as 
a  contrast  to  the  energetic  tones  and  forms.  Two  of  them 
have  left  the  others  and  come  forward  to  sport  in  full  light, 
their  infantile  forms  revelling  in  the  air  with  charming  ease. 
Venetian  art  centres  in  this  work  and  perhaps  reaches  its 
climax  in  it. 


VENICE  AND  TINTORETTO 

JOHN  RICHARD  GREEN 

HE  fall  of  Venice  dates  from  the  League  of  Cam- 
bray  ;  but  her  victory  over  the  crowd  of  her  assail- 
ants was  followed  by  half  a  century  of  peace  and 
glory  such  as  she  had  never  known.  Her  losses  on  the  main- 
land were  in  reality  a  gain,  enforcing  as  they  did  the  cessa- 
tion of  that  policy  of  Italian  aggression  which  had  eaten  like 
a  canker  into  the  resources  of  the  State,  and  drawn  her  from 
her  natural  career  of  commerce  and  aggrandisement  on  the 
sea.  If  the  political  power  of  Venice  became  less,  her  po- 
litical influence  grew  greater  than  ever.  The  statesmen  of 
France,  of  England,  and  of  Germany  studied  in  the  cool,  grave 
school  of  her  Senate.  We  need  only  turn  to  Othello  to 
find  reflected  the  universal  reverence  for  the  wisdom  of  her 
policy  and  the  order  of  her  streets.  No  policy,  however  wise, 
could,  indeed,  avert  her  fall.  The  Turkish  occupation  of 
Egypt,  and  the  Portuguese  discovery  of  a  sea  route  round  the 
Cape  of  Good  Hope,  were  destined  to  rob  the  Republic  of 
that  trade  with  the  East  which  was  the  life-blood  of  its  com- 
merce. But,  though  the  blow  was  already  dealt,  its  effects 
were  for  a  time  hardly  discernible.  On  the  contrary,  the  ac- 
cumulated wealth  of  centuries  poured  itself  out  in  an  almost 
riotous  prodigality.  A  new  Venice,  a  Venice  of  loftier 
palaces,  of  statelier  colonnades,  rose  under  Palladio  and  San- 
305 


3o6  VENICE 

sovino  along  the  line  of  its  canals.  In  the  deep  peace  of  the 
Sixteenth  Century,  a  peace  unbroken  even  by  religious 
struggles  (for  Venice  was  the  one  State  exempt  from  the 
struggle  of  the  Reformation),  literature  and  art  won  their 
highest  triumphs.  The  press  of  the  Aldi  gave  for  the  first 
time  the  masterpieces  of  Greek  poetry  to  Europe.  The 
novels  of  Venice  furnished  plots  for  our  own  drama,  and 
became  the  origin  of  modern  fiction.  Painting  reached  its 
loftiest  height  in  Giorgione,  Titian,  Tintoretto  and  Paul 
Veronese. 

The  greatest  of  colourists  sprung  from  a  world  of  colour. 
Faded,  ruined  as  the  city  is  now,  the  frescoes  of  Giorgione 
swept  from  its  palace  fronts  by  the  sea-wind,  its  very  gon- 
doliers bare  and  ragged,  the  glory  of  its  sunsets  alone  remain 
vivid  as  of  old.  But  it  is  not  difficult  to  restore  the  many- 
hued  Venice  out  of  which  its  painters  sprung.  There  are 
two  pictures  by  Carpaccio  in  the  Accademia  which  bring  back 
vividly  its  physical  aspect.  The  scene  of  the  first,  the 
Miracle  of  the  Patriarch  of  Grado,  as  it  is  called,  lies  on  the 
Grand  Canal,  immediately  in  front  of  the  Rialto.  It  is  the 
hour  of  sunset,  and  dark-edged  clouds  are  beginning  to  fleck 
the  golden  haze  of  the  west  which  still  arches  over  the  broken 
sky-line,  roof  and  turret,  and  bell-tower,  and  chimneys  of 
strange  fashion  with  quaint  conical  tops.  The  canal  lies 
dusk  in  the  eventide,  but  the  dark  surface  throws  into  relief  a 
crowd  of  gondolas  and  the  lithe  glowing  figures  of  their 
gondoliers.  The  boats  themselves  are  long  and  narrow  as 
now,  but  without  the  indented  prora  which  has  become  uni- 


VENICE  AND  TINTORETTO    307 

versal ;  the  sumptuary  law  of  the  Republic  has  not  yet  robbed 
them  of  colour,  and  instead  of  the  present  "  coffin  "  we  see 
canopies  of  gaily-hued  stuffs  supported  on  four  light  pillars. 
The  gondolier,  himself,  is  commonly  tricked  out  in  almost 
fantastic  finery;  red  cap,  with  long  golden  curls  flowing 
down  over  the  silken  doublet,  slashed  hose,  the  light  dress 
displaying  those  graceful  attitudes  into  which  the  rower 
naturally  falls.  On  the  left  side  of  the  canal,  its  white 
marble  steps  are  crowded  with  figures  of  the  nobler  Venetian 
life;  a  black  robe  here  and  there  breaking  the  gay  variety  of 
golden  and  purple  and  red  and  blue;  while  in  the  balcony 
above  a  white  group  of  clergy,  with  golden  candlesticks  tower- 
ing overhead,  are  gathered  round  the  demoniac  whose  cure 
forms  the  subject  of  the  picture. 

But  the  most  noteworthy  point  in  it  is  the  light  it  throws 
on  the  architectural  aspect  of  Venice  at  the  close  of  the  Fif- 
teenth Century.  On  the  right  the  houses  are  wholly  of 
Mediaeval  type,  the  flat  marble-sheeted  fronts  pierced  with 
trefoil-headed  lights;  one  of  them,  splendid  with  painted 
arabesques,  dipping  at  its  base  into  the  very  waters  of  the 
canal,  and  mounting  up  to  inwreathe  in  intricate  patterns 
the  very  chimneys  of  the  roof.  The  left  is  rilled  by  a  palace 
of  the  early  Renaissance;  but  the  change  of  architectural 
style,  though  it  has  modified  the  tone  and  extent  of  colour,  is 
far  from  dismissing  it  altogether.  The  flat  pilasters  which 
support  the  round  arches  of  its  base  are  sheeted  with  a  deli- 
cately tinged  marble;  the  flower  work  of  their  capitals  and 
the  mask  inclosed  within  it  are  gilded  like  the  continuous 


308  VENICE 

billet  moulding  which  runs  round  in  the  hollow  of  each  arch ; 
while  the  spandrils  are  filled  in  with  richer  and  darker  mar- 
bles, each  broken  with  a  central  medallion  of  gold.  The  use 
of  gold,  indeed,  seems  a  "  note  "  of  the  colouring  of  the  early 
Renaissance;  a  broad  band  of  gold  wreathes  the  two  rolls 
beneath  and  above  the  cornice,  and  lozenges  of  gold  light  up 
the  bases  of  the  light  pillars  in  the  colonnade  above.  In 
another  picture  of  Carpaccio,  the  Dismissal  of  the  Ambas- 
sadors, one  sees  the  same  principles  of  colouring  extended 
to  the  treatment  of  interiors.  The  effect  is  obtained  partly 
by  the  contrast  of  the  lighter  marbles  with  those  of  deeper 
colour  or  with  porphyry,  partly  by  the  contrast  of  both  with 
gold.  Everywhere,  whether  in  the  earlier  buildings  of 
Mediaeval  art  or  in  the  later  efforts  of  the  Renaissance, 
Venice  seems  to  clothe  itself  in  robes  of  Oriental  splendour, 
and  to  pour  over  Western  art  before  its  fall  the  wealth  and 
gorgeousness  of  the  East. 

Of  the  four  artist-figures  who — in  the  tradition  of  Tin- 
toretto's picture — support  this  "  Golden  Calf  "  of  Venice, 
Tintoretto  himself  is  the  one  specially  Venetian.  Giorgione 
was  of  Castel  Franco.  Titian  came  from  the  mountains  of 
Cadore;  Paolo  from  Verona.  But  Jacopo  Robusti,  the 
"  little  dyer,"  the  tintoretto,  was  born,  lived,  and  died  in 
Venice.  His  works,  rare  elsewhere,  crowd  its  churches,  its 
palaces,  its  galleries.  Its  greatest  art-building  is  the  shrine 
of  his  faith.  The  school  of  San  Rocco  has  rightly  been  styled 
by  Mr.  Ruskin  "  one  of  the  three  most  precious  buildings  in 
the  world  ";  it  is  the  one  spot  where  all  is  Tintoretto.  FeW 


VENICE  AND  TINTORETTO    309 

contrasts  are  at  first  sight  more  striking  than  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  building  of  the  Renaissance  which  contains  his  forty 
masterpieces,  and  the  great  Mediaeval  church  of  the  Frari 
which  stands  beside  it.  But  a  certain  oneness,  after  all,  links 
the  two  buildings  together.  The  friars  had  burst  on  the 
caste  spirit  of  the  Middle  Age,  its  mere  classification  of  brute 
force,  with  the  bold  recognition  of  human  equality  which 
ended  in  the  socialism  of  Wyclif  and  the  Lollards.  Tin- 
toretto found  himself  facing  a  new  caste-spirit  in  the  Renais- 
sance, a  classification  of  mankind  found  on  aesthetic  refine- 
ment and  intellectual  power;  and  it  is  hard  not  to  see  in  the 
greatest  of  his  works  a  protest  as  energetic  as  theirs  for  the 
common  rights  of  men.  Into  the  grandeur  of  the  Venice 
about  him,  her  fame,  her  wealth,  her  splendour,  none  could 
enter  more  vividly.  He  rises  to  his  best  painting,  as  Mr. 
Ruskin  has  observed,  when  his  subjects  are  noble — doges, 
saints,  priests,  senators  clad  in  purple  and  jewels  and  gold. 
But  Tintoretto  is  never  quite  Veronese.  He  cannot  be  untrue 
to  beauty,  and  the  pomps  and  glories  of  earth  are  beautiful  to 
him ;  but  there  is  a  beauty  too  in  earth,  in  man  himself.  The 
brown,  half  naked  gondolier  lies  stretched  on  the  marble 
steps  which  the  doge,  in  one  of  his  finest  pictures,  has  as- 
cended. It  is  as  if  he  had  stripped  off  the  stately  robe  and 
ducal  cap  and  shown  the  soul  of  Venice  in  the  bare  child  of 
the  lagoons.  The  "  want  of  dignity  "  which  some  have  cen- 
sured in  his  scenes  from  the  Gospels  is  in  them  just  as  it  is  in 
the  Gospels  themselves.  Here,  as  there,  the  poetry  lies  in  the 
strange,  unearthly  mingling  of  the  commonest  human  life 


3io  VENICE 

with  the  sublimest  divine.  In  his  Last  Supper,  in  San 
Giorgio  Maggiore,  the  apostles  are  peasants;  the  low,  mean 
life  of  the  people  is  there,  but  hushed  and  transfigured  by 
the  tall  standing  figure  of  the  Master,  who  bends  to  give 
bread  to  the  disciple  by  his  side.  And  above  and  around 
crowd  in  the  legions  of  Heaven,  cherubim  and  seraphim 
mingling  their  radiance  with  the  purer  radiance  from  the  halo 
of  their  Lord ;  while  amidst  all  this  conflict  of  celestial  light 
the  twinkling  candles  upon  the  board  burn  on,  and  the  damsel 
who  enters  bearing  food,  bathed  as  she  is  in  the  very  glory 
of  Heaven,  is  busy,  unconscious — a  serving  maid,  and  nothing 
more. 

The  older  painters  had  seen  something  undivine  in  man; 
the  colossal  mosaic,  the  tall  unwomanly  Madonna,  expressed 
the  sense  of  the  Byzantine  artist  that  to  be  divine  was  to  be 
inhuman.  The  Renaissance,  with  little  faith  in  God,  had  faith 
in  man  but  only  in  the  might  and  beauty  and  knowledge  of 
man.  With  Tintoretto  the  common  life  of  man  is  ever  one 
with  Heaven.  This  was  the  faith  which  he  flung  on  "  acres 
of  canvas  "  as  ungrudgingly  as  apostle  ever  did,  toiling  and 
living  as  apostles  lived  and  toiled.  This  was  the  faith  he 
found  in  Old  Testament  and  New,  in  saintly  legend  or  in 
national  history.  In  The  Annunciation  at  San  Rocco  a 
great  bow  of  angels  streaming  either  way  from  the  ethereal 
dove  sweeps  into  a  ruined  hut,  a  few  mean  chairs  its  only 
furniture,  the  mean  plaster  dropping  from  the  bare  brick 
pilasters ;  without,  Joseph  at  work  unheeding,  amidst  piles  of 
worthless  timber  flung  here  and  there.  So,  in  The  Adora- 


VENICE  AND  TINTORETTO    311 

tion  of  the  Magi,  the  mother  wonders  with  a  peasant's 
wonder  at  the  jewels  and  gold.  Again,  The  Massacre  of 
the  Innocents  is  one  wild,  horror-driven  rush  of  pure 
motherhood,  reckless  of  all  in  its  clutch  at  its  babe.  So,  in 
the  splendour  of  his  Circumcision,  it  is  from  the  naked 
child  that  the  light  streams  on  the  high-priest's  brow,  on  the 
mighty  robe  of  purple  and  gold  held  up  by  stately  forms  like 
a  vast  banner  behind  him.  The  peasant  mother  to  whose 
poorest  hut  that  first  stir  of  child  life  has  brought  a  vision  of 
angels,  who  has  marvelled  at  the  wealth  of  precious  gifts 
which  a  babe  brings  to  her  breast,  who  has  felt  the  sword 
piercing  her  own  bosom  also  as  danger  threatened  it,  on 
whose  mean  world  her  child  has  flung  a  glory  brighter  than 
glory  of  earth,  is  the  truest  critic  of  Tintoretto. 

What  Shakespeare  was  to  the  national  history  of  England 
in  his  great  series  of  historic  dramas,  his  contemporary,  Tin- 
toretto was  to  the  history  of  Venice.  It  was,  perhaps,  from 
an  unconscious  sense  that  her  annals  were  really  closed  that 
the  Republic  began  to  write  her  history  and  her  exploits  in 
the  series  of  paintings  which  covers  the  walls  of  the  Ducal 
Palace.  Her  apotheosis  is  like  that  of  the  Roman  emperors ; 
it  is  when  death  has  fallen  upon  her  that  her  artists  raise  her 
into  a  divine  form,  throned  amid  heavenly  clouds,  and 
crowned  by  angel  hands  with  the  laurel  wreath  of  victory. 
It  is  no  longer  St.  Mark  who  watches  over  Venice ;  it  is 
Venice  herself  who  bends  from  Heaven  to  bless  boatmen  and 
Senator.  In  the  divine  figure  of  the  Republic  with  which 
Tintoretto  filled  the  central  cartoon  of  the  Great  Hall  every 


3i2  VENICE 

Venetian  felt  himself  incarnate.  His  figure  of  Venice  in 
the  Senate  Hall  is  yet  nobler;  the  blue  sea-depths  are  cleft 
open,  and  strange  ocean  shapes  wave  their  homage,  and  yet 
more  unearthly  forms  dart  up  with  tribute  of  coral  and  pearls 
to  the  feet  of  the  sea  queen  as  she  in  the  silken  state  of  the 
time  with  the  divine  halo  around  her.  But  if  from  this  pic- 
ture in  the  roof  the  eye  falls  suddenly  on  the  fresco  which 
fills  the  close  of  the  room,  we  can  hardly  help  reading  the 
deeper  comment  of  Tintoretto  on  the  glory  of  the  State.  The 
Sala  del  Consiglio  is  the  very  heart  of  Venice.  In  the 
double  row  of  plain  seats  running  round  it  sat  her  nobles; 
on  the  raised  dais  at  the  end,  surrounded  by  the  graver 
senators,  sat  her  duke.  One  long  fresco  occupies  the  whole 
wall  above  the  ducal  seat ;  in  the  background  the  blue  waters 
of  the  lagoon,  with  the  towers  and  domes  of  Venice  rising 
from  them;  around,  a  framework  of  six  bending  saints;  in 
front,  two  kneeling  doges  in  full  ducal  robes,  with  a  black 
curtain  of  clouds  between  them.  The  clouds  roll  back  to 
reveal  a  mighty  glory,  and  in  the  heart  of  it  the  livid  figure  of 
a  dead  Christ  taken  from  the  Cross.  Not  one  eye  of  all  the 
nobles  gathered  in  council  could  have  lifted  itself  from  the 
figure  of  the  doge  without  falling  on  the  figure  of  the  dead 
Christ.  Strange  as  the  conception  is,  it  is  hard  to  believe  that 
in  a  mind  so  peculiarly  symbolical  as  that  of  Tintoretto  the 
contrast  could  have  been  without  a  definite  meaning.  And  if 
this  be  so,  it  is  a  meaning  that  one  can  hardly  fail  to  read  in 
the  history  of  the  time.  The  brief  interval  of  peace  and  glory 
had  passed  away  ere  Tintoretto's  brush  had  ceased  to  toil. 


VENICE  AND  TINTORETTO    313 

The  victory  of  Lepanto  had  only  gilded  that  disgraceful  sub- 
mission to  the  Turk  which  preluded  the  disastrous  struggle 
in  which  her  richest  possessions  were  to  be  wrested  from  the 
Republic.  The  terrible  plague  of  1576  had  carried  off 
Titian.  Twelve  years  after  Titian,  Paul  Veronese  passed 
away.  Tintoretto,  born  almost  at  its  opening,  lingered  till  the 
very  close  of  the  century  to  see  Venice  sinking  into  power- 
lessness  and  infamy  and  decay.  May  not  the  figure  of  the 
dead  Christ  be  the  old  man's  protest  against  a  pride  in  which 
all  true  nobleness  and  effort  had  ceased  to  live,  and  which 
was  hurrying  to  so  shameful  a  fall  ? 


FLOODS  IN    THE  CITY 

HORATIO  F.  BROWN 

THE  floods  in  the  city  have  a  different  cause  from 
those  which  desolate  the  mainland.  The  sea  and 
the  wind  are  responsible  for  them,  and  not  the 
continual  pour  of  rain  upon  the  Alps.  No  doubt,  before  the 
rivers — the  Piave,  the  Sile,  and  the  Brenta — were  canalised, 
and  their  mouths  diverted  from  the  lagoons  into  the  open  sea, 
a  flood  on  the  mainland  would  mean  high  water  in  Venice; 
but  now  the  principal  author  of  a  flood  in  the  city  is  "  that 
son  of  a  dog,  the  sirocco."  A  heavy  wind  blowing  up  the 
Adriatic  for  two  days,  and  sending  a  turbid  sea  rolling  on  the 
sands  of  the  Lido,  virtually  blocks  the  mouths  by  which  the 
tidal  waters  escape  from  the  lagoons  into  the  open.  The 
down-going  tide  cannot  pass  out  till  it  has  lost  its  hour  for 
falling,  and  begins  to  turn  and  rise  again.  Then  it  comes 
sweeping  in  before  the  wind,  swirling  round  the  point  by 
Sant'  Elena  and  the  public  gardens,  streaming  along  the 
curve  by  the  Riva  degli  Schiavoni,  dividing  at  the  point  of 
the  Dogana,  where  half  the  grey-green  flood  pours  up  the 
Grand  Canal,  and  half  fills  the  wider  Giudecca  from  marge 
to  marge. 

The  floods  usually  take  place  in  the  morning.  As  one 
opens  the  window  a  blast  of  warm,  moist  air  streams  into  the 
room,  wetting  all  the  walls,  and  standing  in  drops  on  the 


FLOODS  IN  THE  CITY         31  $ 

scagliolo  pavement;  the  air  is  thick  and  heavy,  and  charged 
with  salt  sea-spray ;  and  far  off,  above  the  roofs  of  the  houses, 
their  reigns  a  continual  booming  noise,  unremitting  and  im- 
pressive in  its  pervasiveness — it  is  the  roar  of  the  sea  on  the 
Lido,  two  miles  or  more  away.  Then  the  small  canal  below 
the  window  begins  to  feel  the  incoming  tide.  The  chips  of 
hay  or  of  wood,  the  cabbage-stalks  and  scraps  of  old  matting, 
move  uneasily,  as  if  in  doubt  which  way  they  are  to  go ;  then, 
with  a  final  turn  on  their  pivots,  they  yield  to  the  current  and 
sweep  away  towards  the  Giudecca.  The  colour  of  the 
water  changes  to  a  pale  pea-green,  not  quite  clear,  but  looking 
as  if  it  had  come  fresh  from  the  sea.  Steadily  the  tide  flows 
faster  and  faster  under  the  bridge,  and  the  market  men  and 
gondoliers  secure  their  boats  to  the  posts.  So  it  goes  on  for  an 
hour  or  more  till  the  jade-coloured  flood  has  nearly  brimmed 
to  the  edge  of  the  fondamenta,  but  not  yet  overflowed  it. 
Then  the  water  begins  to  appear  in  the  calle;  it  comes  well- 
ing up  through  every  drain-hole  and  between  the  flags  of  the 
pavement,  bubbling  like  a  little  geyser  and  making  a  low 
gurgling  noise;  for  the  sea  begins  to  flood  Venice  under  the 
pavements,  and  not  over  the  fondamente,  which  are  usually 
higher  than  the  streets.  Presently  the  baker  puts  out  a  board 
to  serve  as  a  bridge  for  his  customers;  but  soon  the  water 
from  the  canal  has  joined  that  in  the  calle;  the  bridge  ceases 
to  be  of  use,  and  floats  idly  away.  Presently  the  sea  rises; 
it  creeps  under  the  large  door  of  the  palace,  and  swells  the 
little  pools  that  are  bubbling  up  in  the  courtyard,  and  flows 
right  out  by  the  great  gates  on  the  Grand  Canal,  converting 


3i6  VENICE 

the  whole  cortile  into  a  lake.  Then  the  first  boat  passes 
down  the  calle  stopping  at  the  shop  doors  to  pick  up  fares,  and 
bare-legged  men  offer  their  services  as  porters  from  the  high 
bridge  steps  to  the  upper  end  of  the  street,  which  is  still  dry. 
Indeed,  the  flood  is  an  excuse  for  the  display  of  bare  legs,  and 
half  the  population  of  the  quarter  are  tucked  above  the  knee. 
All  the  windows  are  full  of  women  and  children,  laughing  at 
the  traffic  below — laughing  at  the  thrifty,  high-kilted  house- 
wife, out  for  her  marketing,  who  grudges  a  centisimo  for  the 
boat  and  shrinks  from  the  porterage;  laughing  at  the  thin- 
shod  dandy,  whose  hat  was  blown  off  and  umbrella  turned 
inside  out,  and  who  looks  disgust  at  the  wind ;  laughing  at 
the  heavy  man  who  nearly  brings  himself  and  his  beaver  prone 
upon  the  water.  Then  suddenly,  without  a  moment's  warn- 
ing, there  is  a  dazzling  flash  of  lightning,  a  rattling  peal; 
every  face  disappears  from  the  windows,  and  all  the  green 
shutters  go  to  with  a  bang. 

The  streets  are  full  of  people,  most  of  them  bound  for  the 
Piazza  to  see  the  fun.  There  is  laughter  and  jesting  every- 
where, and  the  impression  of  a  capital  joke  in  bare  legs  and 
top  boots;  the  people  get  their  amusement  out  of  it  all, 
though  the  basements  of  their  houses  are  soaking  and  their 
winter  firewood  slowly  taking  in  the  water.  Here  is  one 
woman  marching  along  through  the  flood,  serenely  regard- 
less of  indiscreet  disclosure;  another  in  a  pair  of  high  top 
boots,  lent  by  her  friend,  who  stands  on  the  bridge  and  looks 
on.  The  Piazza  is  one  large  lake  from  the  door  of  Saint 
Mark's  up  to  the  raised  walk  that  runs  under  the  colonnades. 


FLOODS  IN  THE  CITY         317 

and  right  down  the  Piazzetta  out  into  the  stormy  lagoon. 
Under  the  colonnades  a  crowd  promenades  or  stands  in  the 
arches  wratching  the  boats,  the  gondolas,  sandolos  and  barche, 
that  charge  two  centisimi  for  a  row.  The  bright  mosaics  of 
Saint  Mark's  facade,  and  the  long  lines  of  the  two  Procuratie 
seem  to  gain  in  colour  and  in  form  as  thy  rise  right  up  from 
this  level  of  the  sea.  The  doves  go  wheeling  about  in  the 
upper  air,  half  in  alarm  at  the  unwonted  sight  below  them. 
Hard  by  the  two  granite  columns  at  the  sea  end  of  the  Piaz- 
zetta, some  speculators  have  fixed  a  rickety  wooden  bridge 
two  planks  wide,  that  leads  to  the  Ponte  della  Paglia ;  but 
the  wind  is  so  high  that  only  a  venturous  few  attempt  the 
passage,  and  more,  it  would  seem,  to  keep  the  game  alive 
than  from  any  pressure  of  business,  they  are  greeted  with 
applause  or  laughter  as  they  make  the  transit  in  safety  or  lose 
their  hats  on  the  way.  Presently  the  water  begins  to  go  down, 
and  then  comes  a  regular  stampede  of  all  the  boats  in  the 
Piazza,  for  once  caught  there,  it  is  a  serious  matter  to  lift  a 
gondola  down  to  the  sea.  In  a  moment  the  bridge  is  broken 
up,  and  the  boats,  in  extricable  confusion,  come  stream- 
ing down  the  Piazzetta,  bumping  together  or  now  and  then 
giving  an  ominous  crunch  against  the  flags.  There  is 
laughter,  encouragement,  and  help  from  the  on-looking 
crowd.  Any  excuse  serves  for  some  one  to  rush  into  the 
water:  a  hand  to  this  gondola,  a  lift  to  that  barchetta.  In  a 
very  short  space  the  Piazza  is  empty  once  more.  The  water 
falls  fast,  leaving  patches  of  green  seaweed  on  the  stones. 
Out  towards  San  Giorgio  and  the  gardens  a  heavy  haze  hangs 


318  VENICE 

in  the  sky;  a  wind  laden  with  foam  drives  inward  from 
the  sea.  There  is  the  perpetual  boom  of  the  Adriatic  on  the 
beach,  and  the  hot  breath  of  the  sirocco  sweeping  over 
the  heaving  grey  expanse  of  water  that  breaks  in  waves  on 
the  marble  steps  and  foundations  of  the  Piazzetta. 


VENETIAN  MELANCHOLY 

JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS 

IT  is  one  of  those  evenings  charged  with  an  inexplicable 
melancholy,  what  the  French  call  "  indicible  tristesse" 
Outside  upon  the  broad  canal  of  the  Giudecca,  fog- 
horns are  calling  from  sea-going  steamers,  and  now  and  then 
the  weird  sting  of  a  siren,  like  a  writhing  sound-serpent  or  a 
banshee's  cry,  shivers  from  nowhere,  nowhither,  through  the 
opaque  mist.  Is  it  from  our  nerves,  or  from  something  al- 
tered and  set  wrong  in  Nature,  some  unwholesome  wind, 
some  depression  preceding  thunderstorm  or  earthquake,  that 
this  sense  of  a  profound  gloom  settles  down  quite  un- 
expectedly ?  Then  all  life  seems  wasted :  the  heart  is  full  of 
hidden  want !  We  know  not  what  we  desire ;  but  an  atmos- 
phere of  wistfulness  is  everywhere.  What  we  have  achieved, 
what  we  possess,  shows  dull,  flat  and  unprofitable.  Only 
what  we  have  not,  or  lies  beyond  the  scope  of  possibilities, 
gleams  before  the  soul's  gaze  like  a  bright  particular  star. 

November  i.  There  has  been  a  succession  of  sad  sumptu- 
ous autumn  days,  the  lagoons  asleep,  gently  heaving  in  long 
undulations  beneath  the  immense  dome  of  varied  greys,  mod- 
ulating from  the  warmest  violets  to  the  coldest  slaty  hues; 
mournful  pageants  of  sunset,  hanging  roses  and  flakes  of  crim- 
son fire  over  the  whole  expanse  of  heaven's  pavilion. 

November  2.  We  go  out  in  the  gondola,  Angelo,  Vittorio 


320  VENICE 

and  I,  every  afternoon,  and  moor  ourselves  to  a  palo  beyond 
the  Porto  del  Lido,  there  where  the  new  breakwater  is  being 
made,  and  one  looks  toward  the  open  sea  with  flocks  of  many- 
tinted  fishing  boats  in  the  far  offing.  Here  we  sit  and  smoke 
and  talk  a  little.  I  read,  and  wine  from  Poggio  Gherardo 
gurgles  through  the  thin  neck  of  a  Tuscan  flask.  The  ex- 
panse of  water  is  quite  smooth,  with  just  an  indefinable  sense 
of  ebb  and  flow.  All  phases  of  the  sky  are  repeated  on  the 
glassy  surface;  and  after  the  long  windless  days  we  have 
lately  been  enjoying,  the  water  itself  has  run  crystal  clear. 
One  can  look  right  down  to  the  grassy  weeds  and  to  the  bot- 
tom; and  where  light  glints  through  upon  an  oar  or  whit- 
ened stake,  gemmy  patches  of  aquamarine  tints  (such  as 
Tiepolo  loved  to  splash  for  highest  colour-accents  on  his 
blues),  yield  infinite  if  tranquil  pleasure  to  the  eye.  Then 
comes  the  sunset:  and  all  the  furnace  of  the  west  has  long 
since  smouldered  into  ashes  above  Padua  before  we  regain  our 
home  on  the  Zattere. 

November  3.  We  rowed  as  usual  to  our  palo,  and  let  our- 
selves be  lost,  like  a  speck,  in  that  immensity  of  sky  and  water. 
Not  sea — there  is  little  feeling  of  the  true  sea  here.  Only 
messages  exchanged  between  the  Adriatic  and  Venetian  by 
incoming  or  outgoing  vessels.  Low  lines  of  long  shallow 
islands  broken  here  and  there  by  church  towers  and  tufted 
with  stunted  trees,  remind  us  that  this  is  no  more  than  an 
outlying  piece  of  mainland,  covered  by  sheets  of  brackish 
water.  There  is  a  peculiar  melancholy  in  this  advanced 
guard  of  the  continent,  where  the  rivers  of  the  Alps  and 


VENETIAN  MELANCHOLY     321 

Lombardy  are  gradually  gaining  on  the  sea,  depositing  their 
silt  through  centuries.  I  remember  experiencing  the  same 
sadness  on  the  lagoons  at  Tunis,  where  Carthage  has  been 
utterly  erased,  as  possibly  Venice  will  be  one  day  also.  You 
forget  the  rival  mistress  of  the  world  with  Rome,  and  only 
feel  the  desert  and  the  solemn  expanse  of  lake.  Towards 
evening  rosy  shoals  of  cloud  float  across  the  sky,  and  take  a 
keener  hue  on  the  sheeny  deeps  beneath,  while  between  the 
heavens  and  their  reflections  sail  ponderous  battalions  of 
flamingoes  making  a  third  series  of  rose-tinted  cloudlets.  Mel- 
ancholy and  gorgeous  colour-richness  are  combined  in  a 
singular  degree  throughout  the  landscape  of  lagoons. 

November  4.  I  will  try  to  catch  the  special  note  of  a  sun- 
set I  saw  yesterday  from  our  customary  station.  Peculiar 
qualities  of  life  and  movement  are  given  to  these  Venetian 
lagoons  by  the  continual  passage  through  them  of  con- 
siderable rivers,  the  Brenta  and  Sile.  Also  by  the  fact 
that  there  is  a  small  tide  in  the  Adriatic.  It  is  not  dead 
water  like  that  of  a  land-locked  lake,  but  water  subject 
to  complex  conditions  of  influx  and  outflow  of  salt-cur- 
rents combined  with  the  perpetual  course  of  inland  tor- 
rents debouching  through  channels  delved  by  them  in  the 
soft  mud  of  the  basin  at  points  of  least  resistance  and  eas- 
iest access  to  the  gaps  between  the  belting  islands.  The 
lagoon  then  though  it  in  no  way  resembles  the  sea,  has  a 
character  of  change  and  varying  motion  which  makes  it  inter- 
esting without  disturbing  its  unrivalled  excellence  as  a  reflect- 
ing surface. 


322  VENICE 

The  tide,  at  half-past  three,  was  running  out  like  a 
steady  stream,  making  our  moored  boat  throb  with  a 
rhythmic  shudder  seaward.  Then  came  a  pause,  and  then  a 
different  tremor.  New  shivers  in  a  contrary  direction 
thrilled  the  keel,  and  we  felt  that  the  pulse  of  the  lagoon  was 
turning  landward.  It  is  difficult  to  avoid  shades  of  lan- 
guage appropriate  to  vital  processes  while  speaking  of  this  al- 
teration in  the  tide.  How  can  we  think  of  it  as  the  mechanical 
effect  of  gravitation  upon  fluid  masses,  when  we  remember 
how  much  of  animal  and  vegetable  life  over  the  whole  of  that 
huge  area  is  waiting  on  the  subtle  changes?  To  the  sense  of 
weeds  and  molluscs,  sponges,  crustaceans,  and  worms,  ebb 
and  flow  must  be  equivalent  to  the  systole  and  diastole  of  a 
mighty  heart.  We  wrong  the  logic  of  our  heads  perhaps,  but 
we  get  closer  to  Nature  by  indulging  mythological  illusions, 
and  making  our  nerves  sensitive  to  what  for  these  creatures 
are  the  conditions  of  existence.  Then,  too,  have  not  we 
emerged  from  them,  and  does  not,  perhaps,  their  sympathy 
with  natural  and  diurnal  changes  survive  in  all  the  operations 
of  our  sentient  imagination?  The  sky  was  one  vast  dome 
of  delicately  graduated  greys,  dove-breasted,  ashen,  violet, 
blurred-blue,  rose-tinted,  tawny,  all  drenched  and  drowned  in 
the  prevailing  tone  of  sea-lavender.  The  water  heaving,  un- 
dulating, swirling  at  no  point  stationary,  yet  without  a  ripple 
on  its  vitreous  pavement,  threw  back  those  blended  hues, 
making  them  here  and  there  more  flaky  and  distinct  in  vivid 
patches  of  azure  or  of  crimson.  Not  very  far  away,  waiting 
for  a  breeze  to  carry  them  toward  Torcello,  lay  half  a  dozen 


VENETIAN   MELANCHOLY     323 

fishing  boats  with  sails  like  butterflies  a-tremble  on  an  open 
flower:  red,  orange,  lemon,  set  by  some  ineffable  tact  of 
Nature  just  in  the  right  place  to  heighten  and  accentuate  her 
symphony  of  tender  tints.  The  sun  was  nowhere  visible. 
No  last  rays  flamed  from  the  horizon,  illuminating,  as  they 
sometimes  do,  that  fretwork  of  suspended  vapours  with  a  sud- 
den glory  of  mingled  blood  and  fire.  We  knew  that  he  had 
set,  for  a  cindery  pallor  overspread  the  world;  and  we 
turned  homeward,  splashing  the  silent  waters  with  the  ca- 
dence of  our  oars.  But  soon,  as  though  some  celestial  quarrel 
between  planetary  or  sidereal  powers  had  ended,  and  heaven 
were  washed  with  tears  of  reconciliation  and  repentance,  the 
roof  of  clouds  dissolved  into  immeasurable  air.  Luna,  just 
risen,  full  and  radiant,  sailed  in  a  sky  of  brilliant  blue.  The 
colour  was  intense  and  omnipresent:  so  blue,  so  blue:  bath- 
ing thin  mists  which  lay  along  the  face  of  the  lagoon :  tingeing 
pearly  mackerel  clouds  lazily  afloat  above.  White-sailed 
ships,  like  sheeted  phantoms,  swam  past  us  through  the  twi- 
light. The  churches  of  Venice,  S.  Giorgio,  Redentore, 
Salute,  loomed,  large  and  dusky  silhouettes,  emergent  from 
the  clinging  vapours.  Whenever  the  moistened  lead  upon 
their  roofs  and  cupolas  caught  moonlight,  it  shone  with  silver. 
The  concave  of  the  sky  mirrored  in  the  concave  of  the  water 
formed  one  sphere  of  azure  mystery,  moving  through  which 
was  like  being  in  the  heart  of  some  pale  milky  sapphire. 
Only  at  intervals,  along  the  quays,  lamps,  dilated  into  globes, 
with  golden  reflections  sagging  down  along  the  bluish  water, 
broke  and  gave  value  to  the  dominant  chord.  Deep-tongued 


324  IVENICE 

bells  from  far  and  near  thrilled  the  whole  scene  translating 
its  motif  of  colour  into  congenial  qualities  of  sound. 

November  5.  Why  do  ye  toil  hither  and  thither  upon 
paths  laborious  and  peril-fraught?  Seek  what  ye  are  seek- 
ing: but  it  is  not  there  where  ye  are  seeking  it.  Ye  are 
seeking  a  life  of  blessedness  in  the  realm  of  death.  It  is  not 
there.  Stirred  to  the  depths  by  those  miracles,  my  soul 
seemed  to  know  what  she  was  wanting,  and  at  the  same  time 
knew  that  even  to  desire  it  was  vanity;  to  possess  it  would 
be  dust  and  ashes.  The  pains  of  thought,  the  sickness  of  the 
Soul,  the  thirst  for  things  impossible,  are  soothed  by  commu- 
nion with  Nature.  What  can  be  more  tranquillising  than 
this  breadth  of  sea  and  sky,  the  cool  caressing  lisp  of  those 
inflowing  waters,  the  simplicity  of  yonder  overarching  cloud- 
pavilion?  The  day  is  dying  imperceptibly.  There  is  no 
question  of  a  melodramatic  display  of  colour.  The  vapours 
of  the  plain  already  hide  the  sun's  disc.  I  gaze  forward  into 
the  profound  blues  of  the  eastern  heavens.  And  then,  with- 
out turning  my  head  westward,  I  become  aware  that  some 
change  is  taking  place  above  the  fields  of  Lombardy.  For 
that  vast  gulf  of  blue,  which  erewhile  was  opaque  and  dull 
like  indigo,  is  gradually  growing  transparent,  warming  into 
amethyst,  assuming  hues  of  iris,  violet,  and  hyacinth.  Flame 
seems  filtering  down  into  it  from  the  zenith.  The  willows 
and  acacia  trees  upon  the  shore  of  S.  Erasmo  are  passing  from 
the  dull  green  of  distant  foliage  into  the  brilliancy  of  chrys- 
oberyl,  the  fervour  of  chrysophase,  the  pallucidity  of  jade. 
It  is  not  easy  to  detach  one's  gaze  from  this  spectacle;  yet 


VENETIAN   MELANCHOLY     325 

turn  I  must  and  peer  into  the  west.  Between  Fusiana  and 
Malghera  the  cloud-canopy  has  lifted,  leaving  a  blank  space 
of  sky  above  the  buried  sun.  This  is  luminous  with  crimson, 
orange,  citron,  flecked  with  stationary  lakes  of  molten  gold: 
a  great  white  planet  swims  suspended  in  their  midst.  The 
refraction  of  that  light  upon  the  eastern  horizon  caused  the 
blues  to  blush.  So,  having  fed  my  eyes  with  red  and  yellow 
fire,  I  turn  again,  and  now  the  purples  of  the  east,  by  contrast 
with  those  other  hues,  appear  intolerable  in  their  ardour  and 
intensity  of  colour.  The  cold  azure  sucks  our  sense  of  vision 
into  depths  of  incandescent  fluor-spar:  and  just  athwart  the 
core  of  that  cerulean  pyre  floats  a  barge  piled  high  with  hay, 
the  sombre  green  of  which  has  also  caught  the  glow,  and 
burns. 

November  6.  There  has  been  a  total  eclipse  of  the  moon. 
We  were  returning  after  sunset  from  our  accustomed  post. 
The  sun,  this  time,  sank  like  a  round  vermilion  ball  into  the 
plain  of  Padua.  The  sky  was  hard  and  clear.  Like  a  flaw- 
less topaz  the  west  shone,  with  all  the  buildings  of  the  city 
cut  out  in  solid  shapes  of  purple  darkness  against  that  back- 
ground. There  was  no  mystery,  no  illusion,  except  in  the 
daffodils  and  saffrons  of  the  heaving  waterfloor.  Behind  S. 
Pietro  di  Castello  peered  up  a  little  jagged  notch  of  white 
light,  like  an  abnormal  planet  splintered  out  of  shape.  This 
was  the  eclipsed  moon  rising.  But  the  earth's  shadow  grad- 
ually passed  away,  and  the  azure  splendours  of  that  previous 
evening  were  renewed,  pitched  in  a  key  of  higher  clarity. 

November  7.  This  summer  of  S.  Martin  is  overpoweringly 


326  VENICE 

beautiful ;  a  gradual  dying  of  the  year  in  tranquil  pomps  and 
glowing  pageants.  Every  evening  on  the  lagoon  brings  a 
new  spectacle  of  ethereal  and  subtly  coloured  loveliness.  So 
musical,  so  melancholy,  so  far  diviner,  than  the  blare  and 
glory  of  the  springtime.  It  is  infinitely  sweet  and  sad,  this 
whisper  of  the  fading  autumn  bestowing  all  its  stored-up 
passion  and  fruitage  in  dim  twilight  hours.  Immeasurable 
breadth,  unfathomable  mystery,  illimitable  repose  of  coming 
slumber.  I  read  in  a  book  to-day  that  it  must  have  taken 
one  hundred  millions  of  years  to  form  the  earth's  crust,  and 
the  crust  has  only  an  average  of  twenty  miles  in  depth.  In- 
side, all  is  still  and  molten  rock  and  raging  gases  in  combus- 
tion. One  hundred  millions  of  years  to  form  a  thin  surface 
of  elastic  stuff  for  plants,  beasts,  and  men  and  cities  to  exist 
on.  And  of  all  that  time  the  history  of  our  race,  ascertained 
by  documents,  has  only  occupied  five  thousand  years  at  most. 

Ah !  what  is  man,  and  why  does  he  disquietude  his  soul  and 
think  so  much  about  his  destiny? 

"  Creatures  of  a  day  "  ?  What  is  a  man  and  what  is  a 
man  not?  Dreaming  so,  I  sweep  along  the  jetty  of  S.  Niccolo 
di  Lido  through  the  sunset,  with  Angelo  in  front  and  Vittorio 
upon  the  poop.  We  pass  a  laden  boat.  On  the  boat,  erect, 
sturdily  rowing,  is  a  young  man,  whose  face,  fronting  the 
mellow  spaces  of  the  west,  seems  in  its  perfect  and  peculiar 
beauty  to  be  "  the  programme  of  all  good."  A  whole  life  of 
exquisite  emotion  and  superb  energy  expressed  there.  A 
God-created  inimitable  thing.  A  master-piece  of  Nature,  to 
frame  which  all  the  rest  seems  made.  I  am  a  soul,  he  is  a 


VENETIAN   MELANCHOLY     327 

soul:  we  shall  never  meet:  each  of  us  has  some  incalculable 
doom,  and  neither  of  us  knows  what  that  doom  is.  What  I 
really  know  is  that  in  this  intense  momentary  vision  resides 
the  most  poignant  of  all  stings  to  wake  me  into  passionate  in- 
difference to  time  and  chance  and  change,  the  laws  which 
clip  me  round  and  stifle  me.  It  falls  away  and  fades,  and, 
he  becomes  a  memory  which  leaves  an  unextinguished  smart. 
November  8.  All  those  beautiful  pomps  and  pageants  have 
been  again  engulfed  in  sea-fog,  and  I  listen  this  night  to 
the  complaining  fret  of  boats  moored  close  beneath  my 
windows,  the  dreary  hootings  of  sea-going  vessels,  the  shrill, 
thin  eldritch  scream  of  sirens.  Moments  come  in  the 
hyper-sensitive  life  of  artistic  natures,  come  unbidden  and  un- 
caused, when  we  are  assailed  by  desolate  intimations  of  the 
inutility  of  all  things,  the  vanity  of  our  existence,  the  vision- 
ary fabric  of  the  universe,  the  incomprehensibility  of  self,  the 
continuous  and  irreparable  flight  of  time — when  our  joys  and 
sorrows,  our  passion  and  our  shame,  our  endeavours  to  achieve 
and  our  inertia  of  languor,  seem  but  a  mocking  film,  an 
iridescent  scum  upon  the  treacherous  surface  of  a  black  and 
bottomless  abyss  of  horrible  inscrutability.  At  these  times, 
like  Pascal,  we  fain  would  set  a  screen  up  to  veil  the  ever- 
present  gulf  that  yawns  before  our  physical  and  mental  organs 
of  perception.  Alas  for  those  who,  feeling  the  realities  of 
beauty  and  emotion  so  acutely  having  such  power  at  times  to 
render  them  by  words  or  forms  for  others,  must  also  feel 
with  poignant  intensity  the  grim  and  transitory  nature  of  the 
ground  on  which  we  tread,  of  the  flesh  and  clothes  us  round, 


328  VENICE 

of  the  desires  that  fret  our  brains,  the  duties  we  perform,  the 
thoughts  that  keep  our  will  upon  the  stretch  through  months 
of  un remunerative  labour. 

It  is  easy  to  stigmatise  these  moods  as  morbid.  It  is  clear 
that  yielding  to  them  would  entail  paralysis  of  energy,  de- 
creptitude,  disease.  It  is  not  certain  that  recording  them 
serves  any  useful  purpose.  Yet  they  are  real,  a  serious  factor 
in  the  experience  of  sentient  and  reflective  personalities. 
Duly  counterpoised  by  strenuous  activity  and  steady  self- 
effectuation,  they  constitute  for  the  artist  and  the  thinker 
what  might  be  compared  to  a  "  retreat "  for  the  religious. 
They  force  a  man  to  recognise  his  own  incalculable  littleness 
in  the  vast  sum  of  things. 

They  teach  him  to  set  slight  store  on  his  particular  achieve- 
ment. They  make  him  understand  that  seeming-bitter  sen- 
tence of  the  Gospel,  "  Say,  we  are  unprofitable  servants,  we 
have  done  that  which  was  our  duty  to  do."  Also  they  have 
the  minor  value  of  dissipating  vain  glamours  of  fame  or 
blame,  of  popular  applause  or  public  condemnation,  of  vulgar 
display  and  petty  rivalries  with  others.  Emerging  from 
them,  the  man, 'made  wiser  and  saner,  proceeds  to  work  at 
that  which  lieth  nearest  to  his  hand  to  do. 

Michelangelo,  than  whom  none  ever  laboured  with  more 
single-hearted  purpose  and  with  haughtier  constancy  in  his 
appointed  field  of  art,  professed  a  special  dedication  to  the 
thought  of  death. 

"  This  thought,"  he  said,  "  is  the  only  one  which  makes  us 
know  our  proper  selves,  which  holds  us  together  in  the  bond 


VENETIAN   MELANCHOLY     329 

of  our  own  nature,  which  saves  us  from  being  stolen  away 
by  kinsmen,  friends,  great  men  of  parts,  by  avarice,  ambition, 
and  those  other  faults  and  vices  which  filch  one  from  himself. 
Keep  him  distraught  and  dispersed,  without  permitting  him 
to  retire  into  himself  and  to  reunite  his  scattered  parts." 
Such  then  are  the  uses  of  what  the  world  calls  melancholy, 
"  Sweet  dainty  melancholy."  Thanksgiving  to  the  places 
where  moods  like  these  are  nobly,  beautifully  nurtured,  and 
where  their  very  presence  in  the  soul  is  the  purgation  of  its 
baser  passions. 


AFTERNOON  EXCURSIONS:    SAN  LAZ- 

ZARO—MALAMOCCO—FUSINA 

—THE    LIDO 

JOHN  ADD1NGTON  SYMONDS 

THE  mornings  are  spent  in  study,  sometimes  among 
pictures,  sometimes  in   the  Marcian   Library,   or 
again  in  those  vast  convent  chambers  of  the  Frari, 
where  the  archives  of  Venice  load  innumerable  shelves.    The 
afternoons  invite  us  to  a  further  flight  upon  the  water.    Both 
sandolo  and  gondola  await  our  choice,  and  we  may  sail  or 
row,  according  as  the  wind  and  inclination  tempt  us. 

Yonder  lies  San  Lazzaro,  with  the  neat  red  buildings  of 
the  Armenian  convent.  The  last  oleander  blossoms  shine 
rosy  pink  above  its  walls  against  the  pure  blue  sky  as  we 
glide  into  the  little  harbour.  Boats  piled  with  coal-black 
grapes  block  the  landing-place,  for  the  Padri  are  gathering 
their  vintage  from  the  Lido,  and  their  presses  run  with  new 
wine.  Eustace  and  I  have  not  come  to  revive  memories  of 
Byron — that  curious  patron  saint  of  the  Armenian  con- 
vent— or  to  inspect  the  printing-press,  which  issues  books  of 
little  value  for  our  studies.  It  is  enough  to  face  the  terrace, 
and  linger  half  an  hour  beneath  the  low  broad  arches  of  the 
alleys  pleached  with  vines,  through  which  the  domes  and 
towers  of  Venice  rise  more  beautiful  by  distance. 
330 


AFTERNOON   EXCURSIONS     331 

Malamocco  lies  considerably  farther,  and  needs  a  full 
hour  of  stout  rowing  to  reach  it.  Alighting  there,  we  cross 
the  narrow  strip  of  land,  and  find  ourselves  upon  the  huge 
sea-wall — block  piled  on  block — of  Istrian  stone  in  tiers 
and  ranks,  with  cunning  breathing-places  for  the  waves  to 
wreak  their  fury  on  and  foam  their  force  away  in  fretful 
waste.  The  very  existence  of  Venice  may  be  said  to  depend 
sometimes  on  these  murazzi,  which  were  finished  at  an  im- 
mense cost  by  the  Republic  in  the  days  of  its  decadence. 
The  enormous  monoliths  which  compose  them  had  to  be 
brought  across  the  Adriatic  in  sailing-vessels.  Of  all  the 
Lidi,  that  of  Malamocco  is  the  weakest;  and  here,  if  any 
where,  the  sea  might  effect  an  entrance  into  the  lagoon. 
Our  gondoliers  told  us  of  some  places  where  the  murazzi 
were  broken  in  a  gale  or  sciroccale,  not  very  long  ago. 
Lying  awake  in  Venice,  when  -the  wind  blows  hard,  one 
hears  the  sea  thundering  upon  its  sandy  barrier,  and  blesses 
God  for  the  murazzi.  On  such  a  night  it  happened  once  to 
me  to  dream  a  dream  of  Venice  overwhelmed  by  water.  I 
saw  the  billows  roll  across  the  smooth  lagoon  like  a  gigantic 
Eager.  The  Ducal  Palace  crumbled,  and  San  Marco's 
domes  went  down.  The  Campanile  rocked  and  shivered 
like  a  reed.  And  all  along  the  Grand  Canal  the  palaces 
swayed  helpless,  tottering  to  their  fall,  while  boats  piled 
high  with  men  and  women  strove  to  stem  the  tide,  and 
save  themselves  from  those  impending  ruins.  It  was  a  mad 
dream,  born  of  the  sea's  roar  and  Tintoretto's  painting. 
But  this  afternoon  no  such  visions  are  suggested.  The  sea 


332  VENICE 

sleeps,  and  in  the  moist  autumn  air  we  break  tall  branches  of 
the  seeded  yellowing  samphire  from  hollows  of  the  rocks, 
and  bear  them  homeward  in  a  wayward  bouquet  mixed 
with  cobs  of  Indian-corn. 

Fusina  is  another  point  for  these  excursions.  It  lies  at 
the  mouth  of  the  Canal  di  Brenta,  where  the  mainland  ends 
in  marsh  and  meadows,  intersected  by  broad  renes.  In 
spring  the  ditches  bloom  with  fleur-de-lys ;  in  autumn  they 
take  sober  colouring  from  lilac  daisies  and  the  delicate  sea- 
lavender.  Scores  of  tiny  plants  are  turning  scarlet  on  the 
brown  moist  earth;  and  when  the  sun  goes  down  behind  the 
Euganean  hills,  his  crimson  canopy  of  cloud  reflected  on 
these  shallows,  muddy  shoals,  and  wilderness  of  matted 
weeds,  converts  the  common  earth  into  a  fairyland  of  fab- 
ulous dyes.  Purple,  violet  and  rose  are  spread  around  us. 
In  front  stretches  the  lagoon,  tinted  with  a  pale  light  from 
the  east,  and  beyond  this  pallid  mirror  shines  Venice, — a 
long,  low,  broken  line,  touched  with  the  softest  roseate  flush. 
Ere  we  reach  the  Giudecca  on  our  homeward  way,  sunset 
has  faded.  The  western  skies  have  clad  themselves  in 
green,  barred  with  dark  fire-rimmed  clouds.  The  Euga- 
nean hills  stand  like  stupendous  pyramids,  Egyptian,  solemn 
against  a  lemon  space  on  the  horizon.  The  far  reaches  of 
the  lagoons,  the  Alps,  and  islands  assume  those  tones  of 
glowing  lilac  which  are  the  supreme  beauty  of  Venetian 
evening.  Then,  at  last,  we  see  the  first  lamps  glitter  on  the 
Zattere.  The  quiet  of  the  night  has  come. 

Words  cannot  be  formed  to  express  the  endless  varieties 


AFTERNOON   EXCURSIONS     333 

of  Venetian  sunset.  The  most  magnificent  follow  after 
wet  stormy  days,  when  the  west  breaks  suddenly  into  a 
labyrinth  of  fire,  when  chasms  of  clear  turquoise  heavens 
emerge,  and  horns  of  flame  are  flashed  to  the  zenith,  and 
unexpected  splendours  scale  the  fretted  clouds,  step  over 
step  stealing  along  the  purple  caverns  till  the  whole  dome 
throbs.  Or,  again,  after  a  fair  day,  a  change  of  weather 
approaches,  and  high  infinitely  high,  the  skies  are  woven  over 
with  a  web  of  half-transparent  cirrus-clouds.  These  in  the 
afterglow  blush  crimson,  and  through  their  rifts  the  depth 
of  heaven  is  of  a  hard  and  gem-like  blue,  and  all  the  water 
turns  to  rose  beneath  them.  I  remember  one  such  evening 
on  the  way  back  from  Torcello.  We  were  well  out  at  sea 
between  Mazzorbo  and  Murano.  The  ruddy  arches  over- 
head were  reflected  without  interruption  in  the  waveless 
ruddy  lake  below.  Our  black  boat  was  the  only  dark  spot 
in  this  sphere  of  splendour.  We  seemed  to  hang  suspended ; 
and  such  as  this,  I  fancied,  must  be  the  feeling  of  an  insect 
caught  in  the  heart  of  a  fiery-petaled  rose.  Yet  not  those 
melodramatic  sunsets  alone  are  beautiful.  Even  more  ex- 
quisite, perhaps,  are  the  lagoons,  painted  in  monochrome  of 
greys,  with  just  one  touch  of  pink  upon  a  western  cloud, 
scattered  in  ripples  here  and  there  on  the  waves  below,  re- 
minding us  that  day  has  passed  and  evening  come.  And 
beautiful  again  are  the  calm  settings  of  fair  weather,  when 
sea  and  sky  alike  are  cheerful,  and  the  topmost  blades  of  the 
lagoon  grass,  peeping  from  the  shallows,  glance  like  emer- 
alds from  the  surface.  There  is  no  deep  stirring  of  the 


334  VENICE 

spirit  in  a  symphony  of  light  and  colour;  but  purity,  peace, 
and  freshness  make  their  way  into  our  hearts. 

Of  all  these  afternoon  excursions,  that  to  the  Lido  is 
most  frequent.  It  has  two  points  for  approach.  The  more 
distant  is  the  little  station  of  San  Nicoletto,  at  the  mouth 
of  the  Porto.  With  an  ebb-tide,  the  water  of  the  lagoon 
runs  past  the  mulberry  gardens  of  this  hamlet  like  a  river. 
There  is  here  a  grove  of  acacia  trees,  shadowy  and  dreamy, 
above  deep  grass  which  even  an  Italian  summer  does  not 
wither.  The  Riva  is  fairly  broad,  forming  a  promenade, 
where  one  may  conjure  up  the  personages  of  a  century  ago. 
For  San  Nicoletto  used  to  be  a  fashionable  resort  before  the 
other  points  of  Lido  had  been  occupied  by  pleasure-seekers. 
An  artist  even  now  will  select  its  old-world  quiet,  leafy 
shade,  and  prospect  through  the  islands  of  Vignole  and  Sant' 
Erasmo  to  snow-touched  peaks  of  Antelao  and  Tofano, 
rather  than  the  glare  and  bustle  and  extended  view  of 
Venice  which  its  rival  Sant'  Elisabetta  offers. 

But  when  we  want  a  plunge  into  the  Adriatic,  or  a  stroll 
along  smooth  sands,  or  a  breath  of  genuine  sea-breeze,  or  a 
handful  of  horned  poppies  from  the  dunes,  or  a  lazy  half- 
hour's  contemplation  of  a  limitless  horizon  flecked  with  rus- 
set sails,  then  we  seek  Sant'  Elisabetta.  Our  boat  is  left  at 
the  landing-place.  We  saunter  across  the  island  and  back 
again.  Antonio  and  Francesco  wait  and  order  wine,  which 
we  drink  with  them  in  the  shade  of  the  little  osterias  wall. 

A  certain  afternoon  in  May  I  well  remember,  for  this 
visit  to  the  Lido  was  marked  by  one  of  those  apparitions 


AFTERNOON   EXCURSIONS    335 

which  are  as  rare  as  they  are  welcome  to  the  artist's  soul. 
I  have  always  held  that  in  our  modern  life  the  only  real 
equivalent  for  the  antique  mythopoetic  sense — that  sense 
which  enabled  the  Hellenic  race  to  figure  for  themselves  the 
powers  of  earth  and  air,  streams  and  forests,  and  the  presid- 
ing genii  of  places,  under  the  forms  of  living  human  beings 
— is  supplied  by  the  appearance  at  some  felicitous  moment  of 
a  man  or  woman  who  impersonates  for  our  imagination  the 
essence  of  the  beauty  that  environs  us.  It  seems,  at  such  a 
fortunate  moment,  as  though  we  had  been  waiting  for  this 
revelation,  although  perchance  the  want  of  it  had  not  been 
previously  felt.  Our  sensations  and  perceptions  test  them- 
selves at  the  touchstone  of  this  living  individuality.  The 
keynote  of  the  whole  music  dimly  sounding  in  our  ears  is 
struck.  A  melody  emerges,  clear  in  form  and  excellent  in 
rhythm.  The  landscapes  we  have  painted  on  our  brain, 
no  longer  lack  their  central  figure.  The  life  proper  to  the 
complex  conditions  we  have  studied  is  discovered,  and  every 
detail,  judged  by  this  standard  of  vitality,  falls  into  its  right 
relations. 

I  had  been  musing  long  that  day  and  earnestly  upon  the 
mystery  of  the  lagoons,  their  opaline  transparencies  of  air 
and  water,  their  fretful  rising,  and  sudden  subsidence  into 
calm,  the  treacherousness  of  their  shoals,  the  sparkle  and 
the  splendour  of  their  sunlight.  I  had  asked  myself  how 
would  a  Greek  sculptor  have  personified  the  elemental  deity 
of  these  salt-water  lakes,  so  different  in  quality  from  the 
./Egean  or  Ionian  sea?  What  would  he  find  distinctive  of 


336  VENICE 

their  spirit  ?  The  Tritons  of  these  shallows  must  be  of  other 
form  and  lineage  than  the  fierce-eyed  youth  who  blows  his 
conch  upon  the  curled  crest  of  a  wave,  crying  aloud  to  his 
comrades,  as  he  bears  the  nymph  away  to  caverns  where  the 
billows  plunge  in  tideless  instability. 

We  had  picked  up  shells  and  looked  for  sea-horses  on  the 
Adriatic  shore.  Then  we  returned  to  give  our  boatmen 
wine  beneath  the  vine-clad  pergola.  Four  other  men  were 
there,  drinking  and  eating  from  a  dish  of  fried  fish  set  upon 
the  coarse  white  linen  cloth.  Two  of  them  soon  rose  and 
went  away.  Of  the  two  who  stayed,  one  was  a  large, 
middle-aged  man;  the  other  was  still  young.  He  was 
tall  and  sinewy,  but  slender,  for  these  Venetians  are  rarely 
massive  in  their  strength.  Each  limb  is  equally  developed 
by  the  exercise  of  rowing  upright,  bending  all  the  muscles 
to  their  stroke.  Their  bodies  are  elastically  supple,  with 
free  sway  from  the  hips  and  a  mercurial  poise  upon  the 
ankle.  Stefano  showed  these  qualities  almost  in  exaggera- 
tion. The  type  ,in  him  was  refined  to  its  artistic  perfection. 
Moreover,  he  was  rarely  in  repose,  but  moved  with  a  sin- 
gular brusque  grace.  A  black  broad-brimmed  hat  was 
thrown  back  upon  his  matted  zazzera  of  dark  hair  tipped 
with  dusty  brown.  This  shock  of  hair,  cut  in  flakes,  and 
falling  willfully,  reminded  me  of  the  lagoon  grass,  when  it 
darkens  in  autumn  upon  uncovered  shoals,  and  sunset  gilds 
its  sombre  edges.  Silvery  grey  eyes  beneath  it  gazed  in- 
tensely, with  compulsive  effluence  of  electricity.  It  was  the 
wild  glance  of  a  Triton.  Short  blonde  mustache,  dazzling 


AFTERNOON   EXCURSIONS     337 

teeth,  skin  bronzed,  but  showing  white  and  healthful 
through  open  front  and  sleeves  of  lilac  shirt.  The  dashing 
sparkle  of  this  animate  splendour,  who  looked  to  me  as 
though  the  sea-waves  and  the  sun  had  made  him  in  some 
hour  of  secret  and  unquiet  rapture,  was  somehow  emphasised 
by  a  curious  dint  dividing  his  square  chin, — a  cleft  that 
harmonised  with  smile  on  lip  and  steady  flame  in  eyes.  I 
hardly  know  what  effect  it  would  have  upon  a  reader  to 
compare  his  eyes  to  opals.  Yet  Stefano's  eyes,  as  they  met 
mine  had  the  vitreous  intensity  of  opals,  as  if  though  the 
colour  of  Venetian  waters  were  vitalised  in  them.  This 
noticeable  being  had  a  rough  hoarse  voice  which,  to  develop 
the  parallel  with  a  sea-god,  might  have  screamed  in  storm  or 
whispered  raucous  messages  from  crests  of  tossing  billows. 
I  felt,  as  I  looked,  that  here,  for  me  at  least,  the  mytho- 
poem  of  the  lagoons  was  humanised ;  the  spirit  of  the  salt- 
water lakes  had  appeared  to  me;  the  final  touch  of  life 
emergent  from  nature  had  been  given.  I  was  satisfied ;  for 
I  had  seen  a  poem. 


CHIOGGIA 

HENRY  ECROYD 

FROM  Chioggia  southward,  runs  the  stupendous  sea- 
wall, built  by  order  of  the  Venetian  Republic,  to 
prevent  the  encroachments  of  the  sea.  It  is  im- 
mediately inland  of  this  massive  embankment  that  the  most 
productive  eel-grounds  are  situated.  We  will  describe  one 
with  which  we  are  familiar,  containing  a  surface  area  of  800 
acres,  lying  to  the  eastward  of  Ariano,  between  the  mouths 
of  the  Po,  known  respectively  as  la  bocca  di  Levante  and  la 
bocca  della  Maestro.  This  lagoon  is  sheltered  to  the  east- 
ward by  the  sea-wall,  and  upon  the  other  sides  by  artificial 
embankments.  Between  the  eastern  border  and  the  sea-line 
a  communication  is  maintained  by  means  of  a  wide  deep 
pass,  about  a  mile  in  length,  with  sluice-gates  at  either  end. 

When  Christmas  approaches  and  a  dark  winter's  night 
conjures  up  the  spirit  of  the  storm  from  out  the  usually 
calm  and  playful  Adriatic,  then  is  the  time  when  the  eel- 
gardener  and  his  men  await  the  moment  for  gathering  in 
their  annual  crops. 

Imagine,  if  you  can,  reader,  such  a  night.  A  stiff  sea- 
breeze  blowing  (not  as  in  England,  a  north-wester — in  the 
Adriatic  and  Mediterranean  it  is  the  south-easter  which 
the  mariner  most  dreads)  ;  a  murky  blackness,  throwing 
even  the  inky  morass  into  deeper  gloom ;  a  wild  tempestuous 
338 


FISH    MARKET   IN   VENICE 


CHIOGGIA  339 

sea  foaming  and  moaning,  and  lashing  in  impotent  fury  the 
low  line  of  the  western  coast.  At  high  tide,  in  the  darkness 
of  the  night,  the  flood-gates  are  opened,  and  in  burst  the  salt- 
water waves.  Gurgling  and  heaving,  with  tumultuous 
force,  onward  they  flow;  perceptibly  loud  is  the  noise  of 
their  coming,  above  the  sound  of  the  wind  or  the  creaking 
of  the  willows.  Onward,  still  onward,  the  briny  water 
rushes  to  mingle  with  the  aqua  dolce  of  the  inward  lagoon. 
Scarce  has  the  salt  stream  made  half  its  distance  when 
the  lagoon  seems  instinct  with  life;  its  waters  seething  and 
boiling,  at  first  low  and  indistinct,  then  gradually  more 
stirring  and  confused,  until  its  surface  disgorges  myriads  of 
the  eely  tribe,  converging  towards  the  point  where  the  sea- 
water  must  meet  them.  With  surprising  quickness  they  roll 
onwards  through  the  rapidly  narrowing  channel,  the  noise 
they  make  becoming  absolutely  appalling.  Vast  balls  of 
intertwined  millions  choke  the  course  of  the  stream,  and 
rise  high  above  the  surface,  as  they  struggle  onward  towards 
the  inflowing  tide,  which,  with  marvellous  instinct,  they 
have  scented  long  before  it  has  made  half  the  distance  be- 
tween them  and  the  open  sea.  When  the  water  has 
become  thoroughly  brackish,  wire-work  sluice-gates  are  drawn 
across  the  dyke,  and  the  whole  produce  of  the  lagoon  is 
concentrated  within  an  area  of  half  an  acre  of  space.  Then 
commences  the  take,  as  we  may  term  it;  day  and  night 
relays  of  men  haul  out  of  the  water  and  assort  the  eels.  A 
large  proportion  are  immediately  skinned  for  salting  and 
pickling,  others  are  shipped  off  alive  in  trading  vessels 


340  VENICE 

(native  and  foreign)  waiting  to  receive  them,  whilst  the 
smaller  ones  and  the  breed  eels  are  thrown  back  into  the 
water. 

The  process  of  unravelling  the  knotted  heaps  requires 
great  expertness  and  a  sharp  knife.  While  the  writer  was 
watching  this  singular  and  interesting  scene,  one  of  the 
fishermen,  with  that  quickness  of  imaginative  adaptation 
which  distinguishes  the  Pescatore  of  the  Adriatic,  remarked 
to  him:  "Mi  pare  che  questo  e  un  vero  Nodo  Gordiano!" 
A  Gordian  knot  indeed  it  seemed  to  be. 

A  propos  to  the  subject:  the  Venetian  fisherman  is  a 
rare  specimen  of  his  kind;  after  years  spent  on  board  his 
little  fishing-smack,  he  will  suddenly  relinquish  his  sea- 
faring life  and  turn  oyster-hawker  (while  oysters  are  in 
season),  and  venditore  di  sorbetto,  or  roba  dolce,  during 
the  other  months  of  the  year.  Such  characters  are  known 
familiarly  as  "  Chioggiotti,"  and  wander  from  town  to  town, 
frequenting  the  trattoria  and  locanda,  ever  ready  to  bandy 
jokes  or  spin  a  yarn  for  the  amusement  of  their  avventori. 

These  Chioggiotti  are  the  inhabitants  of  a  thickly-populated 
group  of  islands,  or  rather  sand-banks,  lying  south-west  of 
Venice.  Chioggia,  from  which  they  take  their  name,  is  the 
largest  of  these  islands;  it  contains  about  25,000  inhabitants, 
and  lies  adjacent  to  the  mainland.  The  inhabitants  are  a 
people  quite  distinct  from  the  Venetians,  and  we  incline  to 
regard  them  as  descendants  of  the  Pelasgian  or  Etrurian 
races  who  inhabited  the  neighbouring  districts  in  pre-Roman 
days.  In  their  physiognomy,  in  their  costume,  and  in  their 


CHIOGGIA  341 

general  habits  of  life,  they  differ  entirely  from  any  other 
people  of  the  Italian  peninsula;  the  women  are  remarkable 
for  their  well-developed  forms  and  commanding  features, 
betokening  robust  and  healthy  physical  organisation,  and 
their  costume  is  strikingly  picturesque;  whilst  the  men  are 
sober,  frugal,  and  industrious,  occupying  themselves  in  fish- 
ing and  market-gardening.  Each  family  estimates  its 
wealth  by  the  number  of  its  fishing-smacks  and  the  extent 
of  the  campi  it  has  under  potato,  cauliflower,  and  asparagus 
culture. 

The  grand  sight  in  Chioggia  is  its  fish-market,  a  sight 
unique  of  its  kind  in  Europe.  From  the  time  the  sale  of 
fish  commences,  the  scene  is  one  of  the  most  animated  im- 
aginable, if  we  can  call  that  animation  the  peculiar  character- 
istic of  which  is  silence.  Each  fishing-smack  as  it  arrives  off 
the  port  transfers  its  cargo  to  a  canoe-tender,  which  swiftly 
threads  the  watery  pathway,  and  shoots  alongside  the  riviera 
della  Pescheria.  The  fish  is  carried  from  the  boat  by  the  fac- 
chini  della  Piazza,  and  assorted  upon  marble  slabs — the  small 
fish  in  heaps,  the  large  fish  side  by  side ;  the  auctioneer,  having 
attached  a  number  to  each  lot,  and  entered  them  in  his  book, 
is  ready  to  receive  the  bids  of  the  intending  purchasers,  who 
are  willing  to  take  them  to  the  different  inland  markets. 
The  whole  proceeding  now  assumes  an  air  of  indescribable 
mystery  to  the  uninitiated  stranger:  in  the  midst  of  a  dream- 
like silence  dealer  after  dealer  steps  up  to  the  auctioneer, 
whispers  in  his  ear  the  price  he  is  willing  to  give  for  each 
lot  as  it  is  announced,  and  then  retires.  When  all  have  ap- 


342  VENICE 

parently  whispered  their  bid,  and  a  last  pantomimic  appeal 
for  yet  another  offer  has  been  made,  the  name  of  the  highest 
bidder  and  the  price  he  has  offered  is  noted  in  the  book.  As 
lot  after  lot  is  thus  disposed  of,  the  auctioneer  scribbles  a 
duplicate  card,  and  throws  it  to  a  deputy,  who  announces  the 
purchaser  to  whom  it  has  been  assigned. 

Boat-load  after  boat-load  arrives,  and  is  disposed  of  by 
silent  auction,  without  a  word  being  spoken  audibly  by  either 
auctioneer  or  bidder,  and  with  a  celerity  perfectly  surprising  ; 
thus  fish  to  the  value  of  thousands  of  florins  are  daily  dis- 
tributed amongst  the  Lombardo-Venetian  markets,  which 
are  dependent  upon  this  singular  and  isolated  community  for 
their  supply  of  fish,  oysters,  and  other  frutto  del  mare,  as 
well  as  for  the  first  choice  vegetables  of  the  season.  We 
have  eaten  many  varieties  of  fish  in  Chioggia  which  are  un- 
known west  of  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar,  and  are  probably 
even  rarely  met  with  except  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the 
Venetian  lagoons. 


MURANO 

JOHN  RUSKIN 

BUT  it  is  morning  now:   we  have  a  hard  day's  work 
to  do  at  Murano,  and  our  boat  shoots  swiftly  from 
beneath  the  last  bridge  of  Venice,  and  brings  us 
out  into  the  open  sea  and  sky. 

The  pure  cumuli  of  cloud  lie  crowded  and  leaning  against 
one  another,  rank  beyond  rank,  far  over  the  shining  water, 
each  cut  away  at  its  foundation  by  a  level  line,  trenchant  and 
clear,  till  they  sink  to  the  horizon  like  a  flight  of  marble 
steps,  except  where  the  mountains  meet  them,  and  are  lost  in 
them,  barred  across  by  the  grey  terraces  of  those  cloud  foun- 
dations, and  reduced  into  one  crestless  bank  of  blue,  spotted 
here  and  there  with  strange  flakes  of  wan,  aerial,  greenish 
light,  strewed  upon  them  like  snow.  And  underneath  is  the 
long  dark  line  of  the  mainland,  fringed  with  low  trees;  and 
then  the  wide-waving  surface  of  the  burnished  lagoon 
trembling  slowly,  and  shaking  out  into  forked  bands  of 
lengthening  light  the  images  of  the  towers  of  cloud  above. 
To  the  north,  there  is  first  the  great  cemetery  wall,  then  the 
long  stray  buildings  of  Murano,  and  the  island  villages  be- 
yond, glittering  in  intense  crystalline  vermilion,  like  so 
much  jewellery  scattered  on  a  mirror,  their  towers  poised 
apparently  in  the  air  a  little  above  the  horizon,  and  their 
reflections,  as  sharp  and  vivid  and  substantial  as  them- 
selves, thrown  on  the  vacancy  between  them  and  the  sea. 
343 


344  VENICE 

And  thus  the  villages  seem  standing  on  the  air;  and  to 
the  east,  there  is  a  cluster  of  ships  that  seem  sailing  on 
the  land;  for  the  sandy  line  of  the  Lido  stretches  itself 
between  us  and  them,  and  we  can  see  the  tall  white  sails 
moving  beyond  it,  but  not  the  sea,  only  there  is  a  sense  of  the 
great  sea  being  indeed  there,  and  a  solemn  strength  of  gleam- 
ing light  in  sky  above. 

The  most  discordant  feature  in  the  whole  scene  is  the 
cloud  which  hovers  above  the  glass  furnaces  of  Murano;  but 
this  we  may  not  regret,  as  it  is  one  of  the  last  signs  left  of 
human  exertion  among  the  ruinous  villages  which  surround 
us.  The  silent  gliding  of  the  gondola  brings  it  nearer  to 
us  every  moment;  we  pass  the  cemetery,  and  a  deep  sea- 
channel  which  separates  it  from  Murano,  and  finally  enter  a 
narrow  water-street,  with  a  paved  footpath  on  each  side, 
raised  three  or  four  feet  above  the  canal,  and  forming  a  kind 
of  quay  between  the  water  and  the  doors  of  the  houses. 
These  latter  are,  for  the  most  part  low,  but  built  with  massy 
doors  and  windows  of  marble  or  Istrian  stone,  square  set, 
and  barred  with  iron;  buildings  evidently  once  of  no  mean 
order,  though  now  inhabited  only  by  the  poor.  Here  and 
there  an  ogee  window  of  the  Fourteenth  Century,  or  a  door- 
way deeply  enriched  with  cable  mouldings,  shows  itself  in 
the  midst  of  more  ordinary  features;  and  several  houses, 
consisting  of  one  story  only  carried  on  square  pillars,  forming 
a  short  arcade  along  the  quay,  have  windows  sustained  on 
shafts  of  red  Verona  marble,  of  singular  grace  and  delicacy. 
All  now  in  vain:  little  care  is  there  for  their  delicacy  or 


MURANO  345 

grace  among  the  rough  fishermen  sauntering  on  the  quay, 
with  their  jackets  hanging  loose  from  their  shoulder,  jacket, 
cap  and  hair  all  of  the  same  dark-greenish  sea-grey.  But 
there  is  some  life  in  the  scene,  more  than  is  usual  in  Venice: 
the  women  are  sitting  at  their  doors  knitting  busily,  and 
various  workmen  of  the  glass-houses  sifting  glass  dust  upon 
the  pavement,  and  strange  cries  coming  from  one  side  of  the 
canal  to  the  other,  and  ringing  far  along  the  crowded  water, 
from  venders  of  figs  and  grapes,  and  gourds  and  shell-fish; 
cries  partly  descriptive  of  the  eatables  in  question,  but  inter- 
spersed with  others  of  a  character  unintelligible  in  propor- 
tion to  their  violence,  and  fortunately  so  if  we  may  judge  by 
a  sentence  which  is  stencilled  in  black  within  a  garland,  on 
the  whitewashed  walls  of  nearly  every  other  house  in  the 
street,  but  which,  how  often  soever  written  no  one  seems  to 
regard:  "  Bestemme  non  pm.  Lodate  Gesu." 

We  push  our  way  on  between  large  barges  laden  with 
fresh  water  from  Fusina,  in  round  white  tubs,  seven  feet 
across,  and  complicated  boats  full  of  all  manner  of  nets  that 
look  as  if  they  could  never  be  disentangled,  hanging  from 
their  masts  and  over  their  sides;  and  presently  pass  under  a 
bridge  with  the  lion  of  St.  Mark's  on  its  archivolt,  and  an- 
other on  a  pillar  at  the  end  of  a  parapet,  a  small  red  lion 
with  much  of  the  puppy  in  his  face,  looking  vacantly  up  in 
ti'e  air  (in  passing  we  may  note  that,  instead  of  feathers,  his 
wings  are  covered  with  hair,  and  in  several  other  points 
the  manner  of  his  sculpture  is  not  uninteresting).  Presently 
the  canal  turns  a  little  to  the  left,  and  thereupon  becomes 


346  VENICE 

more  quiet,  the  main  bustle  of  the  water-street  being  usually 
confined  to  the  first  straight  reach  of  it,  some  quarter  of  a 
mile  long,  the  Cheapside  of  Murano.  We  pass  a  consider- 
able church  on  the  left,  St.  Pietro,  and  a  little  square  opposite 
to  it  with  a  few  acacia  trees,  and  then  find  our  boat  suddenly 
seized  by  a  strong  green  eddy  and  whirled  into  the  tide-way 
of  one  of  the  main  channels  of  the  lagoon,  which  divides  the 
town  of  Murano  into  two  parts  by  a  deep  stream  some  fifty 
yards  over  crossed  only  by  one  wooden  bridge.  We  let 
ourselves  drift  some  way  down  the  current  looking  at  the 
low  line  of  cottages  on  the  other  side  of  it,  hardly  knowing  if 
there  be  more  cheerfulness  or  melancholy  in  the  way  the  sun- 
shine glows  on  their  ruinous  but  whitewashed  walls,  and 
sparkles  on  the  rushing  of  the  green  water  by  the  grass- 
grown  quay.  It  needs  a  strong  stroke  of  the  oar  to  bring  us 
into  the  mouth  of  another  quiet  canal  of  the  farther  side  of 
the  tide-way,  and  we  are  still  somewhat  giddy  when  we  run 
the  head  of  the  gondola  into  the  sand  on  the  left-hand  side 
of  this  more  sluggish  stream,  and  land  under  the  east  end  of 
the  Church  of  San  Donate,  the  "  Matrice  "  or  "  Mother  " 
Church  of  Murano, 

It  stands,  it  and  the  heavy  campanile  detached  from  it  a 
few  yards,  in  a  small  triangular  field  of  somewhat  fresher 
grass  than  is  usual  near  Venice,  traversed  by  a  paved  walk 
with  green  mosaic  of  short  grass  between  the  rude  squares  of 
its  stones,  bounded  on  one  side  by  ruinous  garden  walls,  on 
another  by  a  line  of  low  cottages,  on  the  third,  the  base  of 
the  triangle,  by  the  shallow  canal  from  which  we  have  just 


MURANO  347 

landed.  Near  the  point  of  the  triangular  space  is  a  simple 
well,  bearing  date  1 502 ;  in  its  widest  part,  between  the 
canal  and  campanile,  is  a  four-square  hollow  pillar,  each  side 
formed  by  a  separate  slab  of  stone,  to  which  the  iron  hasps 
are  still  attached  that  once  secured  the  Venetian  standard. 

The  cathedral  itself  occupies  the  northern  angle  of  the 
field,  encumbered  with  modern  buildings,  small  outhouse-like 
chapels,  and  wastes  of  white  wall  with  blank  square  win- 
dows, and  itself  utterly  defaced  in  the  whale  body  of  it, 
nothing  but  the  apse  having  been  spared;  the  original  plan 
is  only  discoverable  by  careful  examination,  and  even  then 
but  partially.  The  whole  impression  and  effect  of  the  build- 
ing are  irretrievably  lost,  but  the  fragments  of  it  are  still 
most  precious. 

We  must  first  briefly  state  what  is  known  of  its  history. 

The  legends  of  the  Romish  Church,  though  generally 
more  insipid  and  less  varied  than  those  of  Paganism,  deserve 
audience  from  us  on  this  ground,  if  on  no  other,  that  they 
have  once  been  sincerely  believed  in  by  good  men,  and  have 
had  no  ineffective  agency  in  the  foundation  of  the  existent 
European  mind.  The  reader  must  not  therefore  accuse  me 
of  trifling,  when  I  record  for  him  the  first  piece  of  infor- 
mation I  have  been  able  to  collect  respecting  the  cathedral  of 
Murano:  namely,  that  the  Emperor  Otho  the  Great,  being 
overtaken  by  a  storm  on  the  Adriatic,  vowed,  if  he  were 
preserved,  to  build  and  dedicate  a  church  to  the  Virgin,  in 
whatever  place  might  be  most  pleasing  to  her;  that  the 
storm  thereupon  abated ;  and  the  Virgin  appearing  to  Otho 


348  VENICE 

in  a  dream  showed  him,  covered  with  lilies,  that  very  trian- 
gular field  on  which  we  were  but  now  standing,  amidst  the 
ragged  weeds  and  shattered  pavement.  The  emperor  obeyed 
the  vision;  and  the  church  was  consecrated  on  the  I5th  of 
August,  957. 

Whatever  degree  of  credence  we  may  feel  disposed  to  at- 
tach to  this  piece  of  history,  there  is  no  question  that  a 
church  was  built  on  this  spot  before  the  close  of  the  Tenth 
Century:  since  the  year  999  we  find  the  incumbent  of  the 
Basilica  (note  this  word,  it  is  of  some  importance),  di  Santa 
Maria  Plebania  di  Murano  taking  an  oath  of  obedience  to 
the  Bishop  of  the  Altinat  church,  and  engaging  at  the  same 
time  to  give  the  said  bishop  his  dinner  on  the  Domenica  in 
Albis,  when  the  prelate  held  a  confirmation  in  the  mother 
church,  as  it  was  then  commonly  called  of  Murano.  From 
this  period,  for  more  than  a  century,  I  can  find  no  records 
of  any  alterations  made  in  the  fabric  of  the  church,  but  there 
exist  very  full  details  of  the  quarrels  which  arose  between  its 
incumbents  and  those  of  San  Stefano,  San  Cipriano,  San 
Salvatore,  and  the  other  churches  of  Murano,  touching  the 
due  obedience  which  their  less  numerous  or  less  ancient 
brotherhoods  owed  to  St.  Mary's. 

These  differences  seem  to  have  been  renewed  at  the  election 
of  every  new  abbot  by  each  of  the  fraternities,  and  must  have 
been  growing  serious  when  the  Patriarch  of  Grado,  Henry 
Dandolo,  interfered  in  1102,  and  in  order  to  seal  a  peace 
between  the  two  principal  opponents,  ordered  that  the  abbot 
of  St.  Stephen's  should  be  present  at  the  service  in  St.  Mary's 


MURANO  349 

on  the  night  of  the  Epiphany,  and  that  the  abbot  of  St. 
Mary's  should  visit  him  of  St.  Stephen's  on  St.  Stephen's 
day ;  and  that  then  the  two  abbots  "  should  eat  apples  and 
drink  good  wine  together,  in  peace  and  charity."  x 

But  even  this  kindly  effort  seems  to  have  been  without 
result;  the  irritated  pride  of  the  antagonists  remained  un- 
soothed  by  the  love-feast  of  St.  Stephen's  day ;  and  the  breach 
continued  to  widen  until  the  abbot  of  St.  Mary's  obtained 
a  timely  accession  to  his  authority  in  the  year  1125.  The 
Doge  Domenico  Michele,  having  in  the  Second  Crusade 
secured  such  substantial  advantages  for  the  Venetians  as 
might  well  counterbalance  the  loss  of  part  of  their  trade  with 
the  East,  crowned  his  successes  by  obtaining  possession  in 
Cephalonia  of  the  body  of  San  Donate,  bishop  of  Euroea; 
which  treasure  he  having  presented  on  his  return  to  the 
Murano  basilica,  that  church  was  thenceforward  called  the 
church  of  Sts.  Mary  and  Donato.  Nor  was  the  body  of  the 
saint  its  only  acquisition:  St.  Donato's  principal  achieve- 
ment had  been  the  destruction  of  a  terrible  dragon  in  Epirus ; 
Michele  brought  home  the  bones  of  the  dragon  as  well  as  of 
the  saint;  the  latter  were  put  in  a  marble  sarcophagus,  and 
the  former  hung  up  over  the  high  altar. 

But  the  clergy  of  St.  Stefano  were  indomitable.  At  the 
very  moment  when  their  adversaries  had  received  this  for- 
midable accession  of  strength,  they  had  the  audacity  "  ad  onta 

1  Perhaps  in  the  choice  of  the  abbot's  cheer,  there  was  some  occult 
reference  to  the  verse  of  Solomon's  Song:  "Stay  me  with  flagons, 
comfort  me  with  apples." 


350  VENICE 

de  replicati  giuramenti,  e  dell'  inveterata  consuetudine,"  to 
refuse  to  continue  in  the  obedience  which  they  had  vowed  to 
their  mother  church.  The  matter  was  tried  in  a  provincial 
council;  the  votaries  of  St.  Stephen  were  condemned,  and 
remained  quiet  for  about  twenty  years,  in  wholesome  dread 
of  the  authority  conferred  on  the  abbot  of  St.  Donato,  by  the 
Pope's  legate,  to  suspend  any  of  the  clergy  of  the  island  from 
their  office  if  they  refused  submission.  In  1172,  however, 
they  appealed  to  Pope  Alexander  III.,  and  were  condemned 
again :  and  we  find  the  struggle  renewed  at  every  promising 
opportunity,  during  the  course  of  the  Twelfth  and  Thirteenth 
Centuries;  until,  at  last,  finding  St.  Donato  and  the  dragon 
together  too  strong  for  him,  the  abbot  of  St.  Stefano  "  dis- 
covered "  in  his  church  the  bodies  of  two  hundred  martyrs 
at  once ! — a  discovery,  it  is  to  be  remembered,  in  some  sort 
equivalent  to  those  days  to  that  of  California  in  ours.  The 
inscription,  however,  on  the  fagade  of  the  church  recorded  it 
with  quiet  dignity:— '  MCCCLXXIV.  a  dl  XIV.,  dl 
Aprile.  Furono  trovati  nella  presente  chlesa  del  protomar- 
tlre  San  Stefano,  duecento  epiu  corpi  de'  Santi  Martiri,  dal 
Ven.  Prete  Matteo  Fradello  provano  della  chiesa."  x  Cor- 
ner, who  gives  this  inscription,  which  no  longer  exists,  goes 
on  to  explain  with  infinite  gravity,  that  the  bodies  in  ques- 
tion, "  being  of  infantile  form  and  stature,  are  reported  by 

*On  the  i4th  day  of  April,  1374,  there  were  found,  in  this  church 
of  the  first  martyr,  St.  Stefano,  two  hundred  and  more  bodies  of  holy 
martyrs,  by  the  venerable  priest,  Matthew  Fradello,  incumbent  of 
this  church. 


MURANO  351 

tradition  to  have  belonged  to  those  fortunate  innocents  who 
suffered  martyrdom  under  King  Herod;  but  that  when,  or 
by  whom,  the  church  was  enriched  with  so  vast  a  treasure,  is 
not  manifested  by  any  document." 

The  issue  of  the  struggle  is  not  to  our  present  purpose. 
We  have  already  arrived  at  the  Fourteenth  Century,  with- 
out finding  record  of  any  effort  made  by  the  clergy  of  St. 
Mary's  to  maintain  their  influence  by  restoring  or  beautify- 
ing their  basilica;  which  is  the  only  point  at  present  of  im- 
portance to  us.  That  great  alterations  were  made  in  it  at 
the  time  of  the  acquisition  of  the  body  of  St.  Donato  is, 
however,  highly  probable,  the  mosaic  pavement  of  the  in- 
terior, which  bears  its  date  1140,  being  probably  the  last  of 
the  additions.  I  believe  that  no  part  of  the  ancient  church 
can  be  shown  to  be  of  more  recent  date  than  this;  and  I 
shall  not  occupy  the  reader's  time  by  any  inquiry  respecting 
the  epochs  or  authors  of  the  destructive  modern  restorations; 
the  wreck  of  the  old  fabric,  breaking  out  from  beneath  them 
here  and  there,  is  generally  distinguishable  from  them  at  a 
glance ;  and  it  is  enough  for  the  reader  to  know  that  none  of 
these  truly  ancient  fragments  can  be  assigned  to  a  more  recent 
date  than  1140,  and  that  some  of  them  may  with  probability 
be  looked  upon  as  remains  of  the  shell  of  the  first  church 
erected  in  the  course  of  the  latter  half  of  the  Tenth  Century. 

It  is  roofed  by  a  concha,  or  semi-dome;  and  the  external 
arrangement  of  its  walls  provides  for  the  security  of  this 
dome  by  what  is,  in  fact,  a  system  of  buttresses  as  effective 
and  definite  as  that  of  any  of  the  northern  churches,  although 


352  VENICE 

the  buttresses  are  obtained  entirely  by  adaptations  of  the 
Roman  shaft  and  arch,  the  lower  story  being  formed  by  a 
thick  mass  of  wall  lightened  by  ordinary  semicircular  round- 
headed  niches,  like  those  used  so  extensively  afterwards  in 
Renaissance  architecture,  each  niche  flanked  by  a  pair  of 
shafts  standing  cleat  of  the  wall  and  bearing  deeply  moulded 
arches  thrown  over  the  niche.  The  wall  with  its  pillars 
thus  forms  a  series  of  massy  buttresses,  on  the  top  of  which 
is  an  open  gallery,  backed  by  a  thinner  wall,  and  roofed  by 
arches  whose  shafts  are  set  above  the  pairs  of  shafts  below. 
On  the  heads  of  these  arches  rests  the  roof.  We  have, 
therefore,  externally  a  heptagonal  apse,  chiefly  of  rough  and 
common  brick,  only  with  marble  shafts  and  a  few  marble 
ornaments;  but  for  that  reason  all  the  more  interesting, 
because  it  shows  us  what  may  be  done,  and  what  was  done, 
with  materials  such  as  are  now  at  our  own  command ;  and 
because  in  its  proportions,  and  in  the  use  of  the  few  orna- 
ments it  possesses,  it  displays  a  delicacy  of  feeling  rendered 
doubly  notable  by  the  roughness  of  the  work  in  which  laws 
so  subtle  are  observed,  and  with  which  so  thoughtful  orna- 
mentation is  associated. 

We  must  now  see  what  is  left  of  interest  within  the  walls. 

All  hope  is  taken  away  by  our  first  glance;  for  it  falls 
on  a  range  of  shafts  whose  bases  are  concealed  by  wooden 
panelling,  and  which  sustains  arches  decorated  in  the  most 
approved  style  of  Renaissance  upholstery,  with  stucco  roses 
in  squares  under  the  soffits,  and  egg  and  arrow  mouldings 
on  the  architraves,  gilded,  on  a  ground  of  spotty  black  and. 


MURANO  353 

green,  with  a  small  pink-faced  and  black-eyed  cherub  on 
every  keystone;  the  rest  of  the  church  being  for  the  most 
part  concealed  either  by  dirty  hangings,  or  dirtier  whitewash, 
or  dim  pictures  on  warped  and  wasting  canvas;  all  vulgar, 
vain,  and  foul.  Yet  let  us  not  turn  back,  for  in  the  shadow 
of  the  apse  our  more  careful  glance  shows  us  a  Greek  Ma- 
donna, pictured  on  a  field  of  gold;  and  we  feel  giddy  at 
the  first  step  we  make  on  the  pavement,  for  it,  also,  is  of 
Greek  mosaic,  waved  like  the  sea  and  dyed  like  a  dove's  neck. 
Nor  are  the  original  features  of  the  rest  of  the  edifice 
altogether  indecipherable;  the  entire  series  of  shafts  marked 
in  the  ground  plan  on  each  side  of  the  nave  from  the  western 
entrance  to  the  apse,  are  nearly  uninjured;  and  I  believe 
the  stilted  arches  they  sustain  are  those  of  the  original  fabric, 
though  the  masonary  is  covered  by  the  Renaissance  stucco 
mouldings.  Their  capitals,  for  a  wonder,  are  left  bare, 
and  appear  to  have  sustained  no  farther  injury  than  has 
resulted  from  the  insertion  of  a  large  brass  chandelier  into 
each  of  their  abaci,  each  chandelier  carrying  a  sublime  wax 
candle  two  inches  thick,  fastened  with  wire  to  the  wall 
above.  The  due  arrangements  of  these  appendages,  previous 
to  festa  days,  can  only  be  effected  from  a  ladder  set  against 
the  angle  of  the  abacus;  and  ten  minutes  before  I  wrote  this 
sentence,  I  had  the  privilege  of  watching  the  candle-lighter 
at  his  work,  knocking  his  ladder  about  the  heads  of  the 
capitals  as  if  they  had  given  him  personal  offence.  He  at 
last  succeeded  in  breaking  away  one  of  the  lamps  altogther, 
with  a  bit  of  the  marble  of  the  abacus;  the  whole  falling  in 


354  VENICE 

ruin  to  the  pavement,  and  causing  much  consultation  and 
clamour  among  a  tribe  of  beggars  who  were  assisting  the 
sacristan  with  their  wisdom  respecting  the  festal  arrange- 
ments. 

It  is  fortunate  that  the  capitals  themselves,  being  some- 
what rudely  cut,  can  bear  this  kind  of  treatment  better 
than  most  of  those  in  Venice.  They  are  all  founded  on  the 
Corinthian  type,  but  the  leaves  are  in  every  one  different; 
those  of  the  easternmost  capital  of  the  southern  range  are  the 
best,  and  very  beautiful,  but  presenting  no  feature  of  much 
interest,  their  workmanship  being  inferior  to  most  of  the 
imitations  of  Corinthian  common  at  the  period;  much  more 
to  the  rich  fantasies  which  we  have  seen  at  Torcello.  The 
apse  itself  to-day  (i2th  September,  1851),  is  not  to  be  de- 
scribed ;  for  just  in  front  of  it,  behind  the  altar,  is  a  magnif- 
icent curtain  of  a  new  red  velvet  with  a  gilt  edge  and  two 
golden  tassels,  held  up  in  a  dainty  manner  by  two  angels  in 
the  upholsterer's  service;  and  above  all,  for  concentration  of 
effect  a  star  or  sun,  some  five  feet  broad,  the  spikes  of  which 
conceal  the  whole  of  the  figure  of  the  Madonna  except  the 
head  and  hands. 

The  pavement  is  however  still  left  open,  and  it  is  of 
infinite  interest,  although  grievously  distorted  and  defaced. 
For  whenever  a  new  chapel  has  been  built,  or  a  new  altar 
erected  the  pavement  has  been  broken  up  and  readjusted  so 
as  to  surround  the  newly  inserted  steps  or  stones  with  some 
appearance  of  symmetry;  portions  of  it  either  carved  or 
carried  away,  others  mercilessly  shattered  or  replaced  by 


MURANO  355 

modern  imitations,  and  those  of  very  different  periods,  with 
pieces  of  the  old  floor  left  here  and  there  in  the  midst  of 
them,  and  worked  round  so  as  to  deceive  the  eye  into  accept- 
ance of  the  whole  as  ancient.  The  portion,  however,  which 
occupies  the  western  extremity  of  the  nave,  and  the  parts 
immediately  adjoining  it  in  the  aisles,  are,  I  believe,  in  their 
original  positions,  and  very  little  injured:  they  are  composed 
chiefly  of  groups  of  peacocks,  lions,  stags,  and  griffins, — two 
of  each  in  a  group,  drinking  out  of  the  same  vase,  or  shaking 
claws  together, — enclosed  by  interlacing  bands,  and  alternat- 
ing with  chequer  or  star  patterns,  and  here  and  there  an 
attempt  at  representation  of  architecture,  all  worked  in 
marble  mosaic.  The  floors  of  Torcello  and  of  St.  Mark's 
are  executed  in  the  same  manner;  but  what  remains  at 
Murano  is  finer  than  either,  in  the  extraordinary  play  of 
colour  obtained  by  the  use  of  variegated  marbles.  At  St. 
Mark's  the  patterns  are  more  intricate,  and  the  pieces  far 
more  skilfully  set  together;  but  each  piece  is  there  com- 
monly of  one  colour:  at  Murano  every  fragment  is  itself 
variegated,  and  all  are  arranged  with  a  skill  and  feeling  not 
to  be  taught,  and  to  be  observed  with  deep  reverence,  for 
that  pavement  is  not  dateless,  like  the  rest  of  the  church;  it 
bears  its  date  on  one  of  its  central  circles,  1140,  and  is,  in  my 
mind,  one  of  the  most  precious  monuments  in  Italy,  showing 
thus  early,  and  in  those  rude  chequers  which  the  bared  knee 
of  the  Murano  fisher  wears  in  its  daily  bending,  the  begin- 
ning of  that  mighty  spirit  of  Venetian  colour,  which  was  to 
be  consummated  in  Titian. 


ST.  FRANCIS  IN  THE  DESERT 

LINDA  V1LLARI 

FAR  away  in  the  north-eastern  lagoon  lies  the  un- 
frequented islet  of  San  Francisco  nel  Deserto,  with 
its  lonely  monastery  belted  with  cypresses  to  shield 
it  from  winter  blasts,  and  with  a  solitary  stone-pine  set  like 
a  watch-tower  at  its  southern  corner  towards  Venice. 

This  northern  lagoon  is  of  sterner  beauty  than  the  crowded 
water  to  the  south.  Far  away  to  the  left  it  is  bordered  by  a 
narrow  strip  of  plain,  backed  by  the  mountain  ranges  of 
Friuli  and  Cadori.  These  sweep  round  its  waters  in  noble 
lines  and  curves,  broken  here  and  there  by  shadowy  peaks. 
On  very  clear  days  the  soaring  mass  of  the  Pelmo  and  the 
snows  of  Mont'  Antelao  are  distinctly  visible ;  and  the  aged 
Titian  in  his  fine  palace  near  the  Fondamenta  Nuove  must 
have  often  cast  wistful  glances  towards  the  giant  guardians 
of  his  boyhood's  home.  To  the  right  lie  numerous  verdant 
islets  like  loosely-strung  emeralds,  and  the  towers  and  domes 
of  Murano  do  not  long  shut  out  the  view  of  those  of  Maz- 
zorbo  and  Burano,  overtopped  by  the  taller  belfry  of  Tor- 
cello  behind.  The  one  repellant  feature  of  the  lagoon  is  the 
unsightly  blank  wall  of  the  burial-ground  of  San  Michele. 
"  So  small  an  island,"  cries  our  boatman,  "  and  yet  it  can 
hold  all  Venice !  "  But  why  need  this  place  of  rest  wear  the 
aspect  of  a  dungeon  for  the  dead?  Must  a  memento  mori 
356 


ST.  FRANCIS  IN  THE  DESERT    357 

be  inevitably  as  hideous  as  the  death's  head  of  a  penitent's 
cell? 

At  low  tide  the  shallows  about  Murano  shine  like  bur- 
nished mirrors;  forests  of  weed  wave  unceasingly  to  and  fro 
beneath  their  clear  surface,  and  the  green  blades  are  studded 
with  the  little  pearl  shells  that,  when  polished,  are  woven 
into  the  well-known  trinkets  that  fill  so  many  shop-fronts 
at  St.  Mark's. 

On  the  day  of  our  voyage  to  San  Francesco,  we  ran 
aground  among  these  shells ;  for  while  the  veteran  rowers  of 
our  companion  gondola  chose  the  circuitous  route  by  the 
channel  posts,  our  more  daring  Antonio  attempted  a  short 
cut.  He  had  never  run  aground,  he  said,  and  seemed  con- 
vinced that  his  gondola  could  float  in  a  tumbler-depth  of 
water.  But  the  waving  weeds  came  nearer  and  nearer  to 
the  surface,  we  struck  midway;  and  Antonio  and  his  hand- 
some mate — the  ideal  of  a  stage  brigand — had  to  turn  out 
into  the  shallows  and  shove  and  tug  for  many  minutes  before 
we  are  again  afloat.  It  was  ignominious  to  have  to  go  round 
by  the  channel  after  all,  and  be  received  with  broad  grins 
and  mild  jeers  by  the  cautious  rowers  of  the  other  boat. 
But  Antonio  laughed  good-humouredly,  shook  his  curls,  and, 
spreading  his  sail  to  the  breeze,  took  us  across  the  lagoon  at 
a  grand  pace,  far  ahead  of  our  friends.  Past  the  forlorn 
islets  where  gunpowder  is  stored,  and  where  forlorner  sen- 
tinels watched  our  flight  with  wistful  eyes;  past  huge  rafts, 
long  and  sinuous  as  sea-serpents,  with  little  huts  upon  them, 
and  patches  of  moss  and  lichen  that  spoke  to  us  of  the  Tyro- 


358  VENICE 

lese  forests,  whence  they  had  been  torn.  Presently  our 
course  changed,  our  sail  flapped,  and  leaving  the  huddled 
houses  and  factories  of  Burano  to  the  left,  we  made  straight 
for  the  ruddy  tower  of  San  Francesco  nel  Deserto.  It  is  no 
uncheerful  desert  at  this  season,  though  doubtless  dreary 
enough  in  winter  storms  and  fogs.  For  its  southern  win- 
dows look  over  to  Venice,  and,  through  the  summer  haze, 
walls,  towers  and  domes  are  faintly  seen — vague  and  un- 
substantial as  a  city  of  air.  Far  away  to  the  west  stretches 
the  soft  green  line  of  the  mainland,  only  broken  by  a  few 
slender  bell-towers,  mere  black  lines  against  the  thick  cloud- 
curtains  now  veiling  the  mountain  world  behind.  Grass- 
lands and  belts  of  foliage  close  in  the  view  to  the  east. 

A  narrow  causeway  through  a  slip  of  meadow  brings  us 
to  the  convent  porch,  where  a  hale  and  portly  Franciscan 
bids  us  a  hearty  welcome.  But  we  defer  our  visit  to  the 
church;  our  first  duty  being  clearly  to  make  tea  for  our 
thirsty  guests.  By  a  gate  bowered  with  flowering  oleanders, 
we  enter  an  orchard  close  where  the  gnarled  and  stunted  trees 
are  knee-deep  in  grass.  We  wade  through  it  to  the  en- 
circling dyke  and  its  double  row  of  cypresses;  and  having 
found  a  sheltered  shrine  for  our  spirit-lamp,  revel  in  the 
wonderful  view.  Our  artist-friends  seize  their  sketch- 
books, forgetting  both  hunger  and  thirst,  for  there  are  sub- 
jects on  all  sides.  Fantastic  interchange  of  land  and  water 
formed  by  the  scattered  weed-flats  and  flowery  meadows; 
the  long  shadows  of  the  cypress  trees,  the  ruddy  tower  and 
rounded  chancel  of  the  Lombard  Church,  the  fan-shaped 


ST.  FRANCIS  IN  THE  DESERT    359 

chimneys  and  irregular  roof-lines  of  the  straggling  convent, 
the  tender  tints  of  the  lagoon,  and,  best  of  all,  the  visionary 
city  rising  from  the  sea  to  the  south.  The  beacon  pine-tree 
is  invisible  from  this  side,  and,  being  within  the  convent 
garden,  may  not  be  approached  by  female  feet. 

Time  passes  quickly;  the  sun  is  low.  We  seek  our  smil- 
ing friar  and  hasten  into  the  church.  It  is  a  dim  and 
shadowy  interior  at  this  hour,  and  little  of  the  clear  evening 
light  finds  its  way  through  the  narrow  windows.  Behind  a 
grating  near  the  high  altar,  we  are  shown  San  Francesco's 
rock-hewn  cell,  containing  a  life-size  effigy  of  the  saint.  We 
are  puzzled  by  the  geological  anomaly  of  a  rocky  cave  on  a 
sandy  isle;  but  perhaps  San  Francesco  brought  it  with  him 
from  Assisi.  On  turning  into  the  choir,  our  irreverence  was 
checked  by  the  apparition  of  a  similar  figure,  equally  emaci- 
ated and  rigid,  seated  in  the  darkest  corner  of  the  church. 
This,  however,  was  a  living  monk  wrapt  in  prayer,  and 
apparently  unconscious  of  our  intruding  presence.  Another 
haggard  form  slowly  emerged  from  the  shadows  and  dis- 
appeared through  the  doorway.  It  was  reassuring  to  glance 
at  our  stout  Franciscan — there  was  nothing  ghostly  about 
him — and  to  follow  his  substantial  tread  into  the  outer 
court.  Here  there  was  nothing  to  attract .  the  eye,  but 
through  a  corner  door  we  were  allowed  a  glimpse  of  the 
inner  cloister  with  delicate  twisted  columns,  and  a  fine 
sculptured  well  surrounded  by  radiant  beds  of  carnations  and 
gladioli.  Our  jovial  guide  seemed  justly  proud  of  his 
flowers,  and  instantly  bustled  in  to  pick  us  a  handful.  He 


360  VENICE 

told  us  that  the  brethren  were  twenty  in  number,  but  this 
may  have  been  a  pious  fiction  in  honour  of  his  patron  saint, 
for  our  gondoliers  who  had  frequently  entered  the  convent, 
assured  us  there  were  only  eight.  Of  course  by  law  the 
community  is  suppressed,  but  the  law  cannot  prevent  the 
purchase  of  the  building  by  some  private  individual  who 
brings  friends  to  live  with  him,  and  chooses  to  dress  in 
brown  woollen  robes.  Of  course,  too,  by  law  there  is  no 
clausura. 

Once,  a  lady  artist,  burning  to  see  some  famous  picture 
buried  in  an  Italian  monastery,  presented  herself  at  its  gate, 
and  urged  her  legal  right.  The  case  was  submitted  to  the 
Superior,  who  blandly  acknowledged  that  the  law  of  the 
land  entitled  her  to  enter;  but  added,  that  as  by  the  rules  of 
the  Church  cloistered  ground  was  desecrated  by  woman's 
step,  he  was  sure  she  would  kindly  submit  to  be  carried  in 
by  her  coachman.  The  lady  went  away  without  seeing  the 
picture. 

But  now  the  distant  lines  of  spires  and  domes,  the  arsenal 
walls  and  soaring  tower  of  San  Francesco  della  Vigna,  stood 
out  darkly  against  the  glow  of  the  great  red  sun;  and  the 
thickening  storm-clouds  over  Burano  reminded  us  that  seven 
miles  of  water  lay  between  us  and  our  home.  We  raced 
the  storm  and  won ;  for  although  its  ragged  edges  threatened 
to  descend  upon  us,  though  thunder  growled  and  lightning 
flashed,  a  sudden  wind  presently  arose  and  drove  it  away  to 
the  north.  It  was  high  tide  by  this  time,  and  there  was 
much  traffic  on  the  lagoon.  Painted  sails  were  flitting  in  all 


ST.  FRANCIS  IN  THE  DESERT    361 

directions;  we  passed  many  Rialto-bound  fruit  boats  and 
crawling  barges  with  nondescript  cargoes,  and  each  and  all 
added  to  the  charm  of  the  scene.  We  met  a  fat  Franciscan 
returning  to  his  cloister  from  a  day  of  business — or  perhaps 
pleasure — in  Venice.  He  sat  enthroned  on  a  chair  in  a  tiny 
sandalo,  was  sipping  some  cordial  from  a  case-bottle,  and 
gave  us  a  very  spiteful  glance  as  we  exclaimed  at  his  pictorial 
value. 

Reaching  the  Fondamenta  Nuova  just  as  the  lamps  were 
lighted,  we  shot  through  the  city  at  a  splendid  pace,  and  found 
all  the  gay  world  assembling  to  hear  the  band  at  St.  Mark's. 
The  stir  and  animation  of  the  southern  lagoon  was  almost 
bewildering  in  contrast  with  the  silent  waters  behind  us, 
with  the  cypress-girdled  isle  in  their  midst. 


TORCELLO 

JOHN  RUSK  IN 

SEVEN  miles  to  the  north  of  Venice  the  banks  of  sand, 
which  near  the  city  rise  little  above  low-water  mark, 
attain  by  degrees  a  higher  level,  and  knit  themselves 
at  last  into  fields  of  salt  morass,  raised  here  and  there  into 
shapeless  mounds,  and  intercepted  by  narrow  creeks  of  sea. 
One  of  the  feeblest  of  these  inlets,  after  winding  for  some 
time  among  buried  fragments  of  masonry,  and  knots  of  sun- 
burnt weeds  whitened  with  webs  of  fucus,  stays  itself  in  an 
utterly  stagnant  pool  beside  a  plot  of  greener  grass  covered 
with  ground  ivy  and  violets.  On  this  mound  is  built  a  rude 
brick  campanile,  of  the  commonest  Lombardic  type,  which 
if  we  ascend  towards  evening  (and  there  are  none  to  hinder 
us,  the  door  of  its  ruinous  staircase  swinging  idly  on  its 
hinges),  we  may  command  from  it  one  of  the  most  notable 
scenes  in  this  wide  world  of  ours.  Far  as  the  eye  can  reach, 
a  waste  of  wild  sea  moor,  of  a  lurid  ashen  grey ;  not  like  our 
northern  moors  with  their  jet-black  pools  and  purple  heath, 
but  lifeless,  the  colour  of  sackcloth,  with  corrupted  sea- 
water  soaking  through  the  roots  of  its  acrid  weeds,  and  gleam- 
ing hither  and  thither  through  its  snaky  channels.  No 
gathering  of  fantastic  mists,  nor  coursing  of  clouds  across  it; 
but  melancholy  clearness  of  space  in  the  warm  sunset,  op- 
pressive, reaching  to  the  horizon  of  its  level  gloom.  To 
362 


TORCELLO  363 

the  very  horizon,  on  the  north-east;  but,  to  the  north 
and  west,  there  is  a  blue  line  of  higher  land  along 
the  border  of  it,  and  above  this,  but  farther  back,  a  misty 
band  of  mountains,  touched  with  snow.  To  the  east,  the 
paleness  and  roar  of  the  Adriatic,  louder  at  momentary  inter- 
vals as  the  surf  breaks  on  the  bars  of  sand ;  to  the  south,  the 
widening  branches  of  the  calm  lagoon,  alternately  purple 
and  pale  green,  as  they  reflect  the  evening  clouds  or  twilight 
sky ;  and  almost  beneath  our  -feet,  on  the  same  field  which 
sustains  the  tower  we  gaze  from,  a  group  of  four  buildings, 
two  of  them  little  larger  than  cottages  (though  built  of 
stone,  and  one  adorned  by  a  quaint  belfry),  the  third,  an 
octagonal  chapel,  of  which  we  can  see  but  little  more  than 
the  flat  red  roof  with  its  rayed  tiling,  the  fourth,  a  consider- 
able church  with  nave  and  aisles,  but  of  which,  in  like  man- 
ner, we  can  see  little  but  the  long  central  ridge  and  lateral 
slopes  of  roof,  which  the  sunlight  separates  in  one  glowing 
mass  from  the  green  field  beneath  and  grey  moor  beyond. 
There  are  no  living  creatures  near  the  buildings,  nor  any 
vestige  of  village  or  city  round  about  them.  They  lie  like  a 
little  company  of  ships  becalmed  on  a  far-away  sea. 

Then  look  farther  to  the  south.  Beyond  the  widening 
branches  of  the  lagoon,  and  rising  out  of  the  bright  lake  into 
which  they  gather,  there  are  a  multitude  of  towers,  dark,  and 
scattered  among  square-set  shapes  of  clustered  palaces,  a  long 
and  irregular  line  fretting  the  southern  sky. 

Mother  and  daughter,  you  behold  them  both  in  their 
widowhood, — Torcello,  and  Venice. 


364  VENICE 

Thirteen  hundred  years  ago,  the  grey  moorland  looked 
as  it  does  this  day,  and  the  purple  mountains  stood  as  radi- 
antly in  the  deep  distances  of  evening;  but  on  the  line  of  the 
horizon,  there  were  strange  fires  mixed  with  the  light  of  sun- 
set, and  the  lament  of  many  human  voices  mixed  with  the 
fretting  of  the  waves  on  their  ridges  of  sand.  The  flames 
rose  from  the  ruins  of  Altinum ;  the  lament  from  the  multi- 
tude of  its  people,  seeking,  like  Israel  of  old,  a  refuge  from 
the  sword  in  the  paths  of  the  sea. 

The  cattle  are  feeding  and  resting  upon  the  site  of  the 
city  that  they  left;  the  mower's  scythe  swept  this  day  at 
dawn  over  the  chief  street  of  the  city  that  they  built,  and  the 
swathes  of  soft  grass  are  now  sending  up  their  scent  into  the 
night  air,  the  only  incense  that  fills  the  temple  of  their  ancient 
worship.  Let  us  go  down  into  that  little  space  of  meadow 
land. 

The  inlet  which  runs  nearest  to  the  base  of  the  campanile 
is  not  that  by  which  Torcello  is  commonly  approached. 
Another,  somewhat  broader,  and  overhung  by  alder  copse, 
winds  out  of  the  main  channel  of  the  lagoon  up  to  the  very 
edge  of  the  little  meadow  which  was  once  the  Piazza,  of  the 
city,  and  there,  stayed  by  a  few  grey  stones  which  present 
some  semblance  of  a  quay,  forms  its  boundary  at  one  extrem- 
ity. Hardly  larger  than  an  ordinary  English  farmyard,  and 
roughly  enclosed  on  each  side  by  broken  palings  and  hedges 
of  honeysuckle  and  briar,  the  narrow  field  retires  from  the 
water's  edge,  traversed  by  a  scarcely  traceable  footpath,  for 
some  forty  or  fifty  paces,  and  then  expanding  into  the  form  of 


TORCELLO  365 

a  small  square,  with  buildings  on  three  sides  of  it,  the  fourth 
being  that  which  opens  to  the  water.  Two  of  these,  that  on 
our  left  and  that  in  front  of  us  as  we  approached  from  the 
canal,  are  so  small  that  they  might  well  be  taken  for  the  out- 
houses of  the  farm,  though  the  first  is  a  conventual  building, 
and  the  other  aspires  to  the  title  "  Palazzo  pubblico,"  both 
dating  as  far  back  as  the  beginning  of  the  Fourteenth  Cen- 
tury; the  third,  the  octagonal  church  of  Santa  Fosca,  is  far 
more  ancient  than  either,  yet  hardly  on  a  larger  scale. 
Though  the  pillars  of  the  portico  which  surrounds  it  are 
of  pure  Greek  marble,  and  their  capitals  are  enriched  with 
delicate  sculpture,  they,  and  the  arches  they  sustain,  together 
only  raise  the  roof  to  the  height  of  a  cattle-shed;  and  the 
first  strong  impression  which  the  spectator  receives  from  the 
whole  scene  is,  that  whatever  sin  it  may  have  been  which  has 
on  this  spot  been  visited  with  so  utter  a  desolation,  it  could 
not  at  least  have  been  ambition.  Nor  will  this  impression  be 
diminished  as  we  approach,  or  enter,  the  larger  church  to 
which  the  whole  group  of  buildings  is  subordinate.  It  has 
evidently  been  built  by  men  in  flight  and  distress,  who  sought 
in  the  hurried  erection  of  their  island  church  such  a  shelter 
for  their  earnest  and  sorrowful  worship,  as,  on  the  one  hand, 
could  not  attract  the  eyes  of  their  enemies  by  its  splendour, 
and  yet,  on  the  other,  might  not  awaken  too  bitter  feelings 
by  its  contrast  with  the  churches  which  they  had  seen 
destroyed.  There  is  visible  everywhere  a  simple  and  tender 
effort  to  recover  some  of  the  form  of  the  temples  which  they 
had  loved,  and  to  do  honour  to  God  by  that  which  they  were 


3  66  VENICE 

erecting,  while  distress  and  humiliation  prevented  the  desire, 
and  prudence  precluded  the  admission,  either  of  luxury  of 
ornament  or  magnificence  of  plan.  The  exterior  is  absolutely 
devoid  of  decoration,  with  the  exception  only  of  the  western 
entrance  and  the  lateral  door,  of  which  the  former  has  carved 
sideposts  and  architrave,  and  the  latter,  crosses  of  rich  sculp- 
ture ;  while  the  mossy  stone  shutters  of  the  windows,  turning 
on  huge  rings  of  stone,  which  answer  the  double  purpose  of 
stanchions  and  brackets,  cause  the  whole  building  rather  to 
resemble  a  refuge  from  the  Alpine  storm  than  the  cathedral 
of  a  populous  city;,  and,  internally,  the  two  column  mosaics 
of  the  eastern  and  western  extremities, — one  representing 
the  Last  Judgment,  the  other  the  Madonna,  her  tears  falling 
as  her  hands  are  raised  to  bless, — and  the  noble  range  of  pillars 
which  enclose  the  space  between,  terminated  by  the  high 
throne  for  the  pastor  and  the  semicircular  raised  seats  for  the 
superior  clergy,  are  expressive  at  once  of  the  deep  sorrow  and 
the  sacred  courage  of  men  who  had  no  home  left  them  upon 
earth,  but  who  looked  for  one  to  come,  of  men  "  persecuted 
but  not  forsaken,  cast  down  but  not  destroyed." 

I  am  not  aware  of  any  other  early  church  in  Italy  which 
has  this  peculiar  expression  in  so  marked  a  degree;  and  it  is 
so  consistent  with  all  that  Christian  architecture  ought  to 
express  in  every  age  (for  the  actual  condition  of  the  exiles 
who  built  the  Cathedral  of  Torcello  is  exactly  typical  of  the 
spiritual  condition  which  every  Christian  ought  to  recognise 
in  himself,  a  state  of  homelessness  on  earth,  except  so  far  as 
he  can  make  the  Most  High  his  habitation),  that  I  would 


TORCELLO  367 

rather  fix  the  mind  of  the  reader  on  this  general  character 
than  on  the  separate  details,  however  interesting,  of  the 
architecture  itself. 

It  is  not,  however,  to  be  expected  that  either  the  mute 
language  of  early  Christianity  (however  important  a  part  of 
the  expression  of  the  building  at  the  time  of  its  erection), 
or  the  delicate  fancies  of  the  Gothic  leafage  springing  into 
new  life,  should  be  read,  or  perceived,  by  the  passing  traveller 
who  has  never  been  taught  to  expect  anything  in  architecture 
except  Five  Orders:  yet  he  can  hardly  fail  to  be  struck  by 
the  simplicity  and  dignity  of  the  great  shafts  themselves;  by 
the  frank  diffusion  of  light,  which  prevents  their  severity 
from  becoming  oppressive ;  by  the  delicate  forms  and  lovely 
carving  of  the  pulpit  and  chancel  screen;  and,  above  all,  by 
the  peculiar  aspect  of  the  eastern  extremity  of  the  church, 
which,  instead  of  being  withdrawn,  as  in  later  cathedrals, 
into  a  chapel  dedicated  to  the  Virgin,  or  contributing  by  the 
brilliancy  of  its  windows  to  the  splendour  of  the  altar,  and 
theatrical  effect  of  the  ceremonies  performed  there,  is  a 
simple  and  stern  semicircular  recess,  filled  beneath  by  three 
ranks  of  seats,  raised  one  above  the  other,  for  the  bishop  and 
presbyters,  that  they  might  watch  as  well  as  guide  the  devo- 
tions of  the  people,  and  discharge  literally  in  the  daily  service 
the  functions  of  bishops  or  overseers  of  the  flock  of  God. 

Let  us  consider  a  little  each  of  these  characters  in  succes- 
sion; and  first  (for  of  the  shafts  enough  has  been  said 
already),  what  is  very  peculiar  to  the  church,  its  luminous- 
ness.  This  perhaps  strikes  the  traveller  more  from  its  con- 


368  VENICE 

trast  with  the  excessive  gloom  of  the  Church  of  St.  Mark's, 
but  it  is  remarkable  when  we  compare  the  Cathedral  of 
Torcello  with  any  of  the  contemporary  basilicas  in  South 
Italy  or  Lombardic  churches  in  the  North.  St.  Ambrogio 
at  Milan,  St.  Michele  at  Pavia,  St.  Zeno  at  Verona,  St. 
Frediano  at  Lucca,  St.  Miniato  at  Florence,  are  all  like 
sepulchral  caverns  compared  with  Torcello,  where  the 
slightest  details  of  the  sculptures  and  mosaics  are  visible, 
even  when  twilight  is  deepening.  And  there  is  something 
especially  touching  in  our  finding  the  sunshine  thus  freely 
admitted  into  a  church  built  by  men  in  sorrow.  They  did 
not  need  the  darkness;  they  could  not  perhaps  bear  it. 
There  was  fear  and  depression  upon  them  enough,  without 
a  material  gloom.  They  sought  for  comfort  in  their  religion, 
for  tangible  hopes  and  promises,  not  for  threatenings  or 
mysteries;  and  though  the  subjects  chosen  for  the  mosaics 
on  the  walls  are  of  the  most  solemn  character,  there  are  no 
artificial  shadows  cast  upon  them,  nor  dark  colours  used  in 
them:  all  is  fair  and  bright,  and  intended  evidently  to  be 
regarded  in  hopefulness,  and  not  with  terror. 

Nor  were  the  strength  and  elasticity  of  their  minds,  even 
in  the  least  matters,  diminished  by  thus  looking  forward  to  the 
close  of  all  things.  On  the  contrary,  nothing  is  more  re- 
markable than  the  finish  and  beauty  of  all  the  portions  of  the 
buildings,  which  seem  to  have  been  actually  executed  for  the 
place  they  occupy  in  the  present  structure.  The  rudest  are 
those  which  they  brought  with  them  from  the  mainland; 
the  best  and  most  beautiful  those  which  appear  to  have  been 


TORCELLO  369 

carved  for  their  island  church :  of  these,  the  new  capitals  and 
the  exquisite  panel  ornaments  of  the  chancel  screen,  are  the 
most  conspicuous;  the  latter  form  a  low  wall  across  the 
church  between  six  small  shafts  and  serve  to  enclose  a  space 
raised  two  steps  above  the  level  of  the  nave,  destined  for  the 
singers.  The  bas-reliefs  on  this  low  screen  are  groups  of 
peacocks  and  lions,  two  face  to  face  on  each  panel,  rich  and 
fantastic  beyond  description,  though  not  expressive  of  very 
accurate  knowledge  either  of  leonine  or  pavonine  forms. 
And  it  is  not  until  we  pass  to  the  back  of  the  stair  of  the 
pulpit,  which  is  connected  with  the  northern  extremity  of  this 
screen  that  we  find  evidence  of  the  haste  with  which  the 
church  was  constructed. 

The  pulpit,  however,  is  not  among  the  least  noticeable  of 
its  features.  It  is  sustained  on  four  small  detached  shafts 
between  the  two  pillars  at  the  north  side  of  the  screen ;  both 
pillars  and  pulpit  studiously  plain,  while  the  staircase  which 
ascends  to  it  is  a  compact  mass  of  masonry  faced  by  carved 
slabs  of  marble ;  the  parapet  of  the  staircase  being  also  formed 
of  solid  blocks  like  paving-stones,  lightened  by  rich,  but  not 
deep  exterior  carving. 

It  appears  however  questionable  in  the  present  instance, 
whether,  if  the  marbles  had  not  been  carved  to  his  hand,  the 
architect  would  have  taken  the  trouble  to  enrich  them.  For 
the  execution  of  the  rest  of  the  pulpit  is  studiously  simple,  and 
it  is  in  this  respect  that  its  design  possesses,  it  seems  to  me,  an 
interest  to  the  religious  spectator  greater  than  he  will  take  in 
any  other  portion  of  the  building.  It  is  supported,  as  I 


370  VENICE 

said,  on  a  group  of  four  slender  shafts;  itself  of  a  slightly 
oval  form,  extending  nearly  from  one  pillar  of  the  nave  to 
the  next,  so  as  to  give  the  preacher  full  room  for  the  action 
of  the  entire  person,  which  always  gives  an  unaffected  im- 
pressiveness  to  the  eloquence  of  southern  nations.  In  the 
centre  of  its  curved  front,  a  small  bracket  and  detached  shaft 
sustain  the  projection  of  a  narrow  marble  desk  (occupying 
the  place  of  a  cushion  in  a  modern  pulpit),  which  is  hollowed 
out  into  a  shallow  curve  on  the  upper  surface,  leaving  a 
ledge  at  the  bottom  of  the  slab,  so  that  a  book  laid  upon  it,  or 
rather  into  it,  settles  itself  there,  opening  as  if  by  instinct, 
but  without  the  least  chance  of  slipping  to  the  side,  or  in 
any  way  moving  beneath  the  preacher's  hands.  Six  balls,  or 
rather  almonds  of  purple  marble  veined  with  white  are  set 
round  the  edges  of  the  pulpit,  and  form  its  only  decoration. 
Perfectly  graceful,  but  severe  and  almost  cold  in  its  simpli- 
city, built  for  permanence  and  service,  so  that  no  single  mem- 
ber, no  stone  of  it,  could  be  spared,  and  yet  all  are  firm  and 
uninjured  as  when  they  were  first  set  together,  it  stands  in 
venerable  contrast  both  with  the  fantastic  pulpits  of  mediaeval 
cathedrals  and  with  the  rich  furniture  of  those  of  our  modern 
churches. 

But  the  severity  which  is  so  marked  in  the  pulpit  at 
Torcello  is  still  more  striking  in  the  raised  seats  and  episcopal 
throne  which  occupy  the  curve  of  the  apse.  The  arrange- 
ment at  first  somewhat  recalls  to  the  mind  that  of  the  Roman 
amphitheatres;  the  flight  of  steps  which  lead  up  to  the 
central  throne  divides  the  curve  of  the  continuous  steps  or 


TORCELLO  371 

seats  (it  appears  in  the  first  three  ranges  questionable  which 
were  intended,  for  they  seem  too  high  for  one,  and  too  low 
and  close  for  the  other),  exactly  as  in  an  amphitheatre  the 
stairs  for  access  intersect  the  sweeping  ranges  of  seats.  But 
in  the  very  rudeness  of  this  arrangement,  and  especially  in  the 
want  of  all  appliances  for  comfort  (for  the  whole  is  of 
marble,  and  the  arms  of  the  central  throne  are  not  for  con- 
venience, but  for  distinction  and  to  separate  it  more  conspic- 
uously from  the  individual  seats),  there  is  a  dignity  which 
no  furniture  of  stalls  nor  carving  of  canopies  ever  could 
attain,  and  well  worth  the  contemplation  of  the  Protestant, 
both  as  sternly  significative  of  an  episcopal  authority  which 
in  the  early  days  of  the  Church  was  never  disputed,  and  as 
dependent  for  all  its  impressiveness  on  the  utter  absence  of 
any  expression  either  of  pride  or  self-indulgence. 

But  there  is  one  more  circumstance  which  we  ought  to 
remember  as  giving  peculiar  significance  to  the  position  wrhich 
the  episcopal  throne  occupies  in  this  island  church,  namely, 
that  in  the  minds  of  all  early  Christians  the  Church  itself  was 
most  frequently  symbolised  under  the  image  of  a  ship,  of 
which  the  bishop  was  the  pilot.  Consider  the  force  which 
this  symbol  would  assume  in  the  imaginations  of  men  to  whom 
the  spiritual  Church  had  become  an  ark  of  refuge  in  the  midst 
of  a  destruction  hardly  less  terrible  than  that  from  which  the 
eight  souls  were  saved  of  old,  a  destruction  in  which  the 
wrath  of  man  had  become  as  broad  as  the  earth  and  as  merci- 
less as  the  sea,  and  who  saw  the  actual  and  literal  edifice  of 
the  Church  raised  up,  itself  like  an  ark  in  the  midst  of  the 


372  VENICE 

waters.  No  marvel  if  with  the  surf  of  the  Adriatic  rolling 
between  them  and  the  shores  of  their  birth,  from  which  they 
were  separated  for  ever,  they  should  have  looked  upon  each 
other  as  the  disciples  did  when  the  storm  came  down  on  the 
Tiberias  Lake,  and  have  yielded  ready  and  loving  obedience 
to  those  who  ruled  them  in  His  name,  who  had  there  rebuked 
the  winds  and  commanded  stillness  to  the  sea.  And  if  the 
stranger  would  yet  learn  in  what  spirit  it  was  that  the 
dominion  of  Venice  was  begun,  and  in  what  strength  she 
went  forth  conquering  and  to  conquer,  let  him  not  seek  to 
estimate  the  wealth  of  her  arsenals  or  number  of  her  armies, 
nor  look  upon  the  pageantry  of  her  palaces,  nor  enter  into  the 
secrets  of  her  councils;  but  let  him  ascend  the  highest  tier 
of  the  stern  ledges  that  sweep  round  the  altar  of  Torcello, 
and  then,  looking  as  the  pilot  did  of  old  along  the  marble 
ribs  of  the  goodly  temple-ship,  let  him  repeople  its  veined 
deck  with  the  shadows  of  its  dead  mariners,  and  strive  to  feel 
in  himself  the  strength  of  heart  that  was  kindled  within 
them,  when  first,  after  the  pillars  of  it  had  settled  in  the  sand, 
and  the  roof  of  it  had  been  closed  against  the  angry  sky  that 
was  still  reddened  by  the  fires  of  their  homesteads, — first, 
within  the  shelter  of  its  knitted  walls,  amidst  the  murmur  of 
the  waste  of  waves  and  the  beating  of  the  wings  of  the  sea- 
birds  around  the  rock  that  was  strange  to  them, — rose  that 
ancient  hymn,  in  the  power  of  their  gathered  voices: 

"The  Sea  is  His  and  He  made  it: 
And  His  hands  prepared  the  dry  land." 


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